


The Healing of Twin Flames

by grandmelon



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Getting Together, Healing, Living Together, M/M, Night Terrors, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Past Child Abuse, Past Curtis/Shiro (Voltron), Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shiro has OCD, Suicidal Thoughts, Team as Family, Trigger warnings in chapter notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 19:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18156053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandmelon/pseuds/grandmelon
Summary: Shiro is nothing but a shell left from the aftermath of torture and war. He thought he found love, but he ruins that too. Left in the wake of a divorce, struggling to find the energy to live, a familiar face shows up at his door. He thinks he's too broken to love someone properly, that Keith is wasting his time trying to save him from himself. So wrapped up in his guilt, he doesn't realize that Keith has been struggling with his own demons. That he showed up that day looking for a way to save himself from his own despair.That, maybe, they could heal each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing for the VLD fandom, I hope everything reads in-character! I just really wanted to delve into the emotional traumas and personal issues of Shiro and Keith, and why they would have been so distant with each other in Season 8. I'm not sure how long this fic is going to end up being, but it'll have a happy ending when I finally get there! I'm not a person who can write tragedy. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope everyone finds something they like about it!
> 
>  
> 
> **TW - passing suicidal thoughts**

It became clear to Shiro shortly after his retirement that the Atlas had likely done more for him than she had ever let on. The longer Shiro went without Atlas, the more he remembered the nightmares he was plagued with, and the more violently they shook him. Curtis had known about the nightmares, Shiro made it clear to him the moment they got serious enough to share a bed, what Curtis hadn’t known was that they were really night terrors. What _Shiro_ hadn’t known was the slow decrease in sleepless nights wasn’t a result of the coming era of peace, nor the passage of time healing wounds. What had been his normal back on the Castle of Lions was still there. It had just been hidden, subdued by outside forces, by the Atlas.

 

They came back with a vengeance.

 

And Shiro would wake from these terrors angry and scared and confused and so violent that Curtis received bruises and scrapes for simply being there with him. Shiro begged for them to sleep in separate rooms shortly after the resurfacing of his nightmares, but Curtis insisted he could handle it. A full month after retirement Shiro put Curtis through the wringer. For his love and devotion, he received a hand around his neck choking him into submission and the traumatic memories of Shiro screaming at him in his blind fear.

 

Even before the rushed visit to the hospital Shiro knew that was the final straw. Regardless if Curtis had wanted to stay, Shiro wouldn't have let him. He couldn't. Luckily for him, Curtis called for a divorce not an hour after being released, sporting a neck brace but thankfully safe from any life-changing damage.

 

Curtis was horrified by his brokenness and tells Shiro as much. He doesn't deserve this, if he knew what kind of baggage, he was bringing into this things would have been different, he tells him. Shiro's already shattered heart starts to disintegrate that day, because he knew that well before, and he knew he was a fool to think he could find happiness. Curtis tells him to take care of himself, instructs him to see a professional, and is gone within the next week leaving behind nothing but legal papers for Shiro to sign and a gaping hole in his chest. He signed the papers without a second thought, because he knew it was the only thing left to do.

 

Shiro put his fragile heart in the hands of psychiatric specialists and prayed they could fix the mess inside his head. Though he's an unusual person it wasn't an unusual case. He was no different than all the broken soldiers left over from WWIII who've grown old and away from family. Who've hurt the people they love, physically and mentally, because the war came home with them.

 

They tell him to reach out to his loved ones and he gave them some dodgy answers in return. The psychiatrists take note of it and move on because sometimes you have to swing back around with certain people and Shiro is stubborn and proud but also self-sacrificing and he knows they're aware of this fact. Aware that the fear of burdening the people he loved with his brokenness made him pull and pull and pull away some more, until there was barely a string tethering them together. He had taken a chance with Curtis, and he ruined that too.

 

Shiro wanted to go back to the Atlas. Wanted it desperately, especially after becoming aware that she'd been the only thing stopping him from accidentally killing his husband–his _ex-husband_. He doesn't, though, because he knows he can't return to her until things are okay again. That, or at the very least less dangerous. So, he stays in the apartment Curtis left him the apartment while he returned home where his family are surely cursing his name, and rightfully so. He could have killed their precious son.

 

Shiro remains to be in an on-and-off spiral of despair. He thinks sometimes he can manage to get back into that perfect Captain Shirogane persona, does his dishes and laundry, cleans up, reads a book. Even showers and exercises. Sometimes he can do this for a full week but then it all comes crashing down around him and it feels painful to live and in the quiet of his apartment he wishes Allura hadn't pulled him out of the Black Lion’s consciousness. Wishes Keith hadn't bothered tried to save him because he was no longer Takashi Shirogane. He was just the mangled and broken pieces of a man who had existed once, nothing that had been worth saving.

 

It's in one of those precarious moments, where Shiro imagines taking one too many sleeping pills and wonders how he could fool everyone so perfectly even his psychiatrists were convinced he wasn't a suicide risk, that a familiar face clad in a senior Blade uniform shows up at his door. Shiro doesn't have the energy to be surprised or embarrassed, he's maybe had a handful of hours of sleep this week because the sedatives the doctors gave him just don't sit right with him, and he had just been wondering what it'd be like to fall asleep and never wake up. He lets Keith into the small apartment without a word, watches him drop down his bag of things as he looks over his apartment. The bag is small, but it weighs heavy in his mind as it glares up at Shiro from its spot on the floor.

 

“What are you doing here?” Shiro asks, voice rough and raw from a night of screaming. Just hours before he saw the very face in front of him cold and dead and covered in blood over a faceless enemy.

 

“Where's Curtis?” Keith counters, turning around and looking at him with a deep sadness in his eyes. “I got distress signals from Atlas claiming to be you. When I got there, they told me you retired phoebs ago.”

 

“Oh,” Shiro says helpfully, his brain finally focusing on something other than the memory of those same eyes, lifeless and staring back at him. “Curtis is gone. I don't know why the Atlas sent you those messages. Maybe she was worried about me.”

 

Shiro can see the moment he was going to interrogate further before glancing down at his left hand. Keith says nothing, the only thing giving away that anything has changed is the thin line his lips have become and the smallest furrow of his brow.

 

He looks older, he thinks. A little more rugged, a little more filled out. His insides twist, proud and yet disappointed that he hadn't been there to watch such growth. Not unlike how he–how _the clone_ felt when he first saw him after the Quantum Abyss.

 

“You look like shit,” Keith says and Shiro let's out a meager concept of a laugh. Keith was here, and he wasn't going to coddle or bullshit him.

 

“Some days are worse than others,” he admits, and he's offered a gentle look.

 

“I know,” Keith whispers and places a firm hand on Shiro's shoulder, giving it a squeeze before letting it fall away just as quickly. “Does this place have a guest bedroom?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, and then when the thought finally strikes him, “you're staying?”

 

Keith doesn't respond to that, simply grabs his bag off the floor and takes off down the small connected hall. It's a spacious enough apartment, but it’s still only apartment. A thank you for all he's done, the Garrison had told him. He knows it was just a sorry attempt at an apology for pronouncing him dead and then relying on him and his band of misfits to keep the world from ending.

 

Keith finds the guest room, empty as it served as little more than storage before Curtis took everything and left his life. He tosses his bag on the bed and starts peeling away his suit. Shiro doesn't even have the gall to feel shame as he watches Keith strip down to his nakedness. His eyes catch on some new scars crossing over his back and arms. Some old ones he's never seen on his inner thighs catch his attention. They're long and deliberate and go only as far down as a pair of boxers would.

 

Shiro doesn't have much more time to contemplate what that might mean before Keith is throwing on sweats and a t-shirt, tying his hair back and turning around to give the room, and Shiro, a once-over. If he was shocked or surprised by Shiro's unabashed staring, he didn't show it. Keith's senses have always sharp, even if he hadn't just lumbered after him like a zombie, so he's pretty sure Keith knew he was there watching and just didn't care.

 

“When's the last time you ate?” He asks and Shiro's mind supplies him with a very helpful “Uh.” Keith rolls his eyes and Shiro thinks he can see a glint of fondness in them before pushing past him and heading for the kitchen, the cleanest part of the house if not for the dirty take-out boxes thrown across every counter.

 

Shiro watches as he throws them all away and opens the fridge, tossing the perished items in the garbage. He opens the cupboard next and pauses. There's a huff of air that escapes his nose that Shiro reads as amusement and he pulls out some instant macaroni and cheese boxes.

 

“Do you have any lactate?” He asks and Shiro shakes his head.

 

“No.” Keith looks at the box again, turning it around and reading the back.

 

“Do you need it for this fake shit?” He wonders out loud and Shiro cracks the first genuine smile he's had since the resurfacing of his restless nights.

 

“Not really,” he says, the ghost of his own amusement on his lips. Keith's head snaps up, and he smiles at him, big and bright and suddenly Shiro's painfully aware of how much he missed that.

 

“Alright, macaroni it is,” he says, closing the cupboard and grabbing one of the pots hanging off the wall. He rinses it out, dusty from going unused.

 

It probably hadn't seen action since they first moved out there, if he was to be honest. Curtis was never one for cooking and Shiro was a disaster in the kitchen. He'd always get too distracted by whatever news or emails or reports he had to check. Watching Keith set a pot filled with water on the electric stovetop pulls at the dead heart residing in his chest until it feels something almost warm.

 

“You should take a shower. And shave whatever that is,” he says waving at the uneven scruff on his chin.

 

“I haven't trimmed it in a while,” Shiro admits, finally alive enough to be embarrassed by his state of disarray. Keith only smiles at him and a low chuckle escape his lips.

 

“I meant the whole thing, it makes you look old,” Keith says. “You look better without it.”

 

Shiro tenses, an uncomfortable wave of guilt and anxiety growing in his stomach. He knows he should tell him, should tell all of them, but he's still afraid of what it means. With the exciting news of his new body's lack of muscle eating diseases he also gained a different life sentence. A _life_ sentence, as it were.

 

“I uh, grew it out because, well,” Shiro musters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wanted to look like I was aging with you guys.”

 

Keith looks at him carefully and Shiro's gaze drops to the ground because he's afraid of what he might see there. He senses Keith's movement before he hears it, because really the other was far too practiced in the art of stealth and he was never very loud to begin with, but he didn't expect to be pulled into a hug. A real hug, bone crushing and warm and the first genuine human contact he's had since the night he tried to murder his husband in his sleep and the mere thought of it has him gasping for air.

 

Sensing his distress Keith pulls back just far enough to look at him and give him that smile again, smaller now, a deep-rooted sadness in the curves of his lips. “I know.”

 

“You know?” Shiro repeats and Keith nods.

 

“Pidge got into all of our medical files a while back to have for her own records. She only told me, but I'm pretty sure we all had some theories,” Keith admits, and he is so gentle with his hands as he cups Shiro's face. “It's okay if it's not something you're ready to face. But you don't have to face it alone. At the very least, you have me.”

 

“What will I do when they're gone–when you're gone?” Shiro asks, desperate because this was a thought that has been plaguing him since the scientists told him of his new-found potential immortality.

 

“We'll figure out how to deal with living without them when we get there,” Keith said, face back to a contemplative melancholy before morphing into a smirk. “You'll still have quite some time before you can get rid of me, though.”

 

“What do you mean?” Shiro whispers, the tremble in his heart ignoring Keith's poor attempt at humor. Keith looks at him, confused in a way that made Shiro wonder what he was so blind to.

 

“I'm only half-human, remember?”

 

“But you look older,” he accused, and Keith is surprised if the whites of his eyes have anything to say, but then they settle in amusement and a flush of embarrassment color his cheeks.

 

“Uh, yeah, had myself a second puberty,” he says, scrunching up his face in distaste. “Just as bad as the first, maybe worse.”

 

Shiro smiles, a chuckle stuck in his throat, and instead something more like a sob of relief comes out. “Oh,” he says, feeling his eyes begin to water.

 

“Shower,” Keith insists, turning him around and pushing him out of the kitchen. “Go shower, and shave that shit off. Thirty-four is hardly old, you don't need to look like someone's grandfather.”

 

Shiro laughs then, it's not much of a laugh but he shakes his head and follows Keith's orders. He plucks a towel from his room that isn’t too dirty and gathers together what clean clothes he can scavenge from his drawers. He didn't want to go prancing around the apartment naked searching for something to wear while Keith was there trying to take care of him.

 

It's been awhile since they've been this close, he muses once the cold water splashes over him. It's been awhile for a lot of things. Even before he got engaged Keith was pulling away and so was, he and the weird tension that built between him wasn't entirely his fault, but he did have a heavy hand in it. It made him wonder what had changed, why Keith was there. Why he'd still cross the universe to come save him despite the growing years of distance and their once close relationship morphing into something more akin to an acquaintanceship.

 

The thought nags and nags but the warm water kicks in and he has Keith making him macaroni and cheese in the other room, so he focuses on scrubbing away the night sweats that have been caked on his skin for three days now. He feels the weird length of his hair as he washes it and thinks maybe it's time for a real shave after all.

 

When he finishes rinsing off the hair trimmings prickling his skin, he thinks maybe Keith was right. He's just hit his mid-thirties, that's not that old. His grandfather looked like he was twenty well into his fifties and only the peppered hair ever gave away his age. He didn't have to try so hard to look normal. Even then, what does normal mean to a man who has lived a year enslaved by an alien race he never could have dreamed of existing, fighting for his life, being ripped apart and put back together again. What does normal mean to a man who has piloted giant sentient robot lions in a ten-thousand-year-old war. A man who died in that fight only to be brought back to the living through the corpse of his clone, who helped birth and pilot a new sentient robot in order to defeat the greatest threat the universe has ever known.

 

A man who’s estranged best friend was in the other room despite everything that’s festered between them.

 

Taking a deep breath, Shiro braced himself for whatever was to come and walked out of the bathroom. The kitchen was empty save for a single bowl of mac and cheese and a piece of paper reading ‘ _Eat. Be back soon_ – _Keith_ ’ in perfectly illegible chicken scratch. Picking up the bowl and debating whether or not to heat up the now room temperature macaroni, Shiro decided cold was just fine and took a spoonful into his mouth.

 

Walking into the living room he noticed there were no longer clothes or papers strewn across coffee table and floor alike. Instead there was a high stack of documents all shuffled together on one end of the table. A mechanical noise followed by some thumping caught his ear and he headed to the hallway closet that doubled as a laundry room with its stacked washer and dryer. Opening the folding door, he found the washer hard at work. Taking stock of the rest of his home he noticed the door to his room was open. On his bed sat his hamper, a beat-up old thing that had missing plastic bars and a melted corner due to his own negligence ironing clothes.

 

Stepping closer he saw all the dirty clothes he had thrown on the floor were now in the basket. Everything else seemed untouched, including the biggest mess of all, his dresser. It was exactly as he left it, messy in all meanings of the word. A cluster of letters from both Curtis and his lawyer stacked on one side, a broken picture of them on their wedding, shattered glass still sitting on the fabric of one of his ties, his wedding ring sat discarded in a cup of change. He hadn’t bothered touch anything from that dresser since he signed the last divorce paper. It was a shrine to his failure, a reminder of how he ruined the last good thing he had after the war and the slow separation of his family.

 

Shoving another spoonful of cold, soggy noodles in his mouth he makes his way back to the living room, planting himself on the couch and waiting for Keith’s return.

 

Time moved on slowly, Shiro finishing his bowl of mac and cheese and he even had the gumption to put the bowl in the sink instead of letting it find a permanent home on his freshly cleaned coffee table. An hour after his shower found him wrapped up in a fluffy throw blanket, resting against his couch as he counted the passing time. When two passes in silence he wonders if Keith had gotten lost. He was about to grab his comm, not knowing whether he still had the other's contact information, when the sound of his front door unlocking hits his ears.

 

“Keith?” Shiro calls out, though it's hardly louder than a whisper. His eyes feel heavy and everything seems so dull and gray and exhausting.

 

“I'm back,” Keith's voice rings and Shiro feels the weight of his eyes lighten just a bit. When Keith finally steps into the living room, walking with purpose to the kitchen, Shiro catches sight of four bags in one hand and two in the other. The four bags are all reusable grocery bags that he had had stashed away in the hallway closet. The other two are plastic and solid white with no indication as to what they might have inside.

 

Venturing into the kitchen, he watches Keith fill his fridge with various vegetables and meats. A small thing of real milk, some butter, some alien fruits he couldn't even begin to name and some he could, as well as some bottled something or others with obscure Galran writing and most noticeably a case of beer. He tosses some frozen packages in the freezer then sets on filling his cupboard. Peeking into one of the still full bags he’s unsurprised to see toothpaste and a toothbrush, some over the counter painkillers, and to Shiro's amusement, a box of lactate.

 

“How do you feel?” Keith asks as he grabs the pills and tosses them into a lower shelf of the cupboard. Shiro has himself an inner laugh at the thought. Curtis had always complained when they weren’t in the bathroom’s medicine cabinet but Shiro had grown up with them in the kitchen. It was a small argument that eventually Shiro backed down from, but he felt a tinge of something petty enter his heart. Something along the lines of ‘ _Ha. You see?’_ but that was neither here nor there now, and the thought invites guilt and shame into his heart.

 

“Not as bad as before,” Shiro relented after a moment. It’s not saying much, but it’s something. And he knows by the look in Keith’s eye that he was pleased with the answer. Keith wouldn’t bullshit him and right now he had little energy to do anything but be honest himself.

 

“Were you saving these for sentimental reasons?” Keith asks, moving on as he pulls out the house keys he had taken. On it was a coin shaped keychain and a small stuffed gorilla. It was Curtis’s. He had left the keychains, tokens of their early dates, and the key hanging by the door when he had left.

 

“Nope,” he says, because really, they meant nothing to him. They had just been cheap souvenirs that Curtis had taken a liking to.

 

Keith takes a second, appraising him, looking to see if he was lying. After a moment’s silence Keith seems to believe him and bends the keyring and tosses it, and the small trinkets, into the trash. Pulling out a dark cord, he strings the key up and ties it around his neck like that’s where it had belonged all along.

 

“Been a while since I’ve used a real key,” he says in amusement. Shiro wants to ask what Keith’s plan is, why he was here, how long he’ll stay, but decides against it.

 

“Not as fancy as space castles,” he says instead, and Keith rolls his eyes. “How’ve you been, Keith?”

 

The look on his face makes Shiro’s heart go out to him. They needed to talk, there was so much left between them. Instead he takes the squeeze of a hand on his shoulder and the lopsided smile. “Better,” he says, and Shiro can hear ‘ _I missed you._ ’ It’s almost too painful a confession for their fragile relationship.

 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Shiro says. A small olive branch to give considering everything, but although tiny, it was a powerful truth. Keith wears his emotions without fear, the smile on his lips and the glistening pool of his eyes not unlike what he had seen waking up in his new body.

  
Keith tells him he’s going to bed. All that galactic travel had him exhausted, and the emotional upheaval finds Shiro feeling much the same. He retreats to his own room, wondering how long this might last, but the soft ‘ _goodnights_ ’ exchanged makes him feel like something monumental has happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fandom twitter](https://twitter.com/melonmachinery)   
>  [writing twitter](https://twitter.com/grandmelon/status/1107664858038845442)   
>  [tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18156053/chapters/42934484)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lonely touch of a solemn dream. The smell of breakfast. The taste of laughter and uncertainty. The sound of music in the air. The sight of a radiant smile promising more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who read the last chapter! I really hope this chapter is up to snuff. I'm actually looking for a beta-reader if anyone is interested? It'd really help if I had a second pair of eyes on this for accidental tense-changes, etc. since this fic is really kind of writing itself. If you're interested hit me up on twitter or tumblr! 
> 
> Anyways please enjoy the lamest joke in history and also some sadness and domesticity?

Shiro couldn’t remember the last time he slept the night and woke up from a dream that didn’t leave him sweating. More often than not his conscious was bombarding him with things that tore through his brain and heart and had him ripping bed sheets as he thrashed about. He would have been more than happy enough to have had another night of dreamless sleep. But when he had woken up, he was left without the fear or anger, and without the blankness that comes with a sleep passed in silence. Instead, he was left a soft sense of confusion and something melancholy in nature.

It wasn’t a particularly interesting dream, it was just him, standing on the precipice of a great sea. Not a few feet from him stood Keith, looking out onto the same vast and overwhelming ocean. Shiro opened his mouth, but no words would come out. This Keith was young, the very same as he found him, a boy not yet sixteen, but his eyes were deep and showing an age and maturity he wasn’t used to. There was a soft, knowing smile on his lips as he turned to Shiro. He held out his hand, and the waves climbed higher.

He wondered if they’d reach them, there, on the cliffside.

The younger Keith said something. His lips moving and Shiro knows the words are important, but for the life of him he can’t remember what he had said. He tries still, as he stares up at his ceiling, pulled from his sleep by the murmur of that very voice. A one-sided conversation, Keith’s words obscured by the walls, but the sound filling his ears much like in his dream.

It’s been five days since Keith showed up at his apartment. Five days of Shiro waking up to the sound of Keith already starting his day. Five days is enough to start the semblance of a routine, he learned. Keith would have food ready, nothing fancy, but Shiro could recognize the careful nutritional balance each meal held. They’d do their separate things for the rest of the morning, Keith would follow him to the local gym. Shiro’s sure Keith had his own routines he performed back at the apartment, could hear the quiet sounds splitting the air as he practiced some alien martial art in the living room. He never stayed to watch, didn’t feel he had the right to. Instead he’d stay in his room and stare at the gray walls thinking himself into a hole just as he would before Keith arrived.

Today was no different, as far as their routine went. Shiro eventually crawled out of bed, making a sorry attempt at a shower because the small brightness to Keith’s eyes when he performed remedial tasks on his own lit a tiny light in his heart. By the time he got out and dressed Keith was in the kitchen setting out their breakfast. It looked somewhat like an omelet, but the general neon colors and the leftover stem of a vegetable he was sure wasn’t of Earth sitting over on his counter made him question its taste.

“It’s a traditional Galran dish,” Keith says, needing no more prompting than the hesitance in Shiro’s eyes. “It’s good–not just like, I like it good. Hunk likes it too. Promise it doesn’t taste weird.”

“Your mom taught you?” Shiro guesses, trying to deflect the attention from what Keith had clearly presumed was disgust. Cutting into it with his fork he took a bite, it was savory. Tasted more like steak than eggs, which caught him off guard. He didn’t hate it, though. In fact, it was quite good. “This is really good,” he says, figuring keeping his opinions to himself did neither of them any favors.

The twitch of Keith’s lips gave away his pleasure at the compliment. It was the third time Keith smiled while Shiro complimented the food he made. Shiro holds onto that knowledge. “Yeah, she taught me a couple of things. She’s not much of a cook, but all the Blades know basics to keep your body in good condition.”

“What’s it called?” Shiro asks and Keith laughs so suddenly the food on Shiro’s fork falls on his lap with a splat. He grimaces as he picks it up with a napkin and puts it back on the table for when he’s ready to throw it out. “What’s so funny? Does it not have a name?”

“It does, but you’re not going to believe what it is,” Keith says, snickering to himself. The corners of his own lips curl up at the sound.

“Oh yeah, what is it?” Shiro hums, taking another bite. Keith hides his grin behind his hand, the crinkle of his eyes making chewing a lot harder than it should be.

“Farhtmakur,” Keith says, barely holding in another laugh as Shiro nearly chokes.

“Excuse me?” Shiro asks again, snorting and trying to hide the disgusting amount of food that was still in his mouth, unable to swallow without choking. “Did you say fart maker?”

“Farhtmakur,” Keith laughs, nodding.

“Are you trying to gas me out of my own house?” Shiro teases. Keith is gasping for breath and it’s so silly and juvenile, Shiro can't help but to laugh too. The sounds falling from their lips doubling back onto each other in a cycle until he's laughing harder than the joke really deserves, harder than he can remember. Tears are in his eyes as spits out a piece of the food up on his chin.

“Gross,” Keith wheezes, arms wrapped around his sides. Shiro’s so caught up in the moment he almost forgets they’re war-worn adults now, not the same boys they were all those years ago. Making ridiculous, disgusting, childish jokes. Acting like complete fools until they got enough looks they’d have to hide their snickers and settle for elbow jabs and sudden bursts of giggles. The feeling hits him so hard there are different tears in his eyes and as they settle down Keith’s smile freezes on his lips.

“Shiro?” Keith asks, looking somewhere between concerned for him and concerned he’d break their moment. He shakes his head, wiping the salty droplets out of his eyes, his own smile causing his cheeks to ache.

“I’m okay,” he says, and he means it. “I just–I missed this.”

Keith’s concern doesn’t fully leave, but the tension is gone, and his open smile falls into a gentle curve of lips. “Me too,” he says, and Shiro feels the very longing in that voice echo in his own chest. They grew up too fast. He missed the days of forgetting himself, with Keith and Adam in his arms. He missed Keith’s snide comments and their terrible sense of humor that Adam would always scold but would find amusing anyways.

“Do you ever wonder if things would have been different if he hadn’t died?” Keith asks, his smile gone now, a careful furrow of his brow, staring down at his own food. It was a loaded question, one Shiro thinks about too.

“Sometimes,” he admits, sighing. He doesn’t have the energy to elaborate and the way Keith pokes at his food tells him he didn’t need a detailed answer. He wonders what it feels like for Keith, if he knows how Shiro misses Adam like an old friend instead of the man he was supposed to marry. He’s not sure why it matters, but his brain is too tired to try and figure it out. In a way, it’s enough to know that Keith thinks of him to.

“You should finish your breakfast,” Keith says, the joyous atmosphere now gone. Shiro could almost feel the temperature drop. He doesn’t respond, just does as he’s told and wonders if there will be a day when they can laugh at a fart joke without having it taken from them by the things they can’t change.

The rest of the morning passes in silence. Their respective tablets placed in front of them and neither share a word. He can feel Keith's gaze on him from time to time, but neither make a move. He wonders if it’s as awkward for Keith as it is for him, but the other always seemed so unaffected by silence.

Somewhere around noon Keith gets up and tells him he has to leave for a bit, asks if Shiro needs a ride to his therapy session, to which Shiro gives a firm negative. He doesn't tell Keith he isn't planning on going, but he knows Keith can see it anyways. It was the fifth session he's called out of, and in a world where there's so many others who need help no one really cared about one rogue adult deciding he didn’t want to bother.

He was just tired, so tired.

With a quick reassurance he’ll be back Keith leaves without any fanfare. Shiro watches the door click shut and hears the lock slide in place before trudging his way back to his room. He stares at the walls, a cosmic gray paint that seemed practical at the time. Now it's dark color bores into him and the feeling is not unlike the bodiless existence he lived in for just around a year. Pulling the shades shut, the darkness is enough to get the itch at the back of his neck to ease.

Shiro lies back against his bed, staring at the outline of the unmoving ceiling fan and lets out a deep breath. Five days, he thinks, five days and no sign of Keith leaving. No mentions of Blade missions or obligations. His chest flutters with a mix of anxiety and something gentler, fear that he finally screwed up at breakfast clawing at his heart. He counts his breathes, tries to quiet the thoughts in his heads.

Somewhere between Keith leaving and returning Shiro fell asleep. The stagnant air of his room disappeared, a cold breeze coming in through a window he doesn't remember opening. The soft sound of music that reminds him of summer plays in his ears. A quiet gratefulness that he hadn't woken up when the other had entered his room settles in his skin. As much as he's sure Keith wouldn't  _ die _ if he had attacked him, he doesn't want to test that theory.

His eyes feel rough, squinting because they felt so uncomfortable open, like it was too soon. The itchiness there was nothing new, just irritating, and he rolls off his bed and stumbles over to his door, which he only just noticed was also open. Trudging out of the bedroom he sees Keith there in the living room, folding laundry. Some of it Shiro recognizes, his clothes from the past few days. Normally Shiro would toss on the same sweaty pajamas he had on the day before, if he had even managed to get out of them in the first place, but Keith has forced him into a fresh shirt and sweatpants every night since he arrived. Amongst the few pieces he recognized there was also a lot he didn't, only realizing as he blinks himself awake that they must belong to Keith.

“Hey,” Keith calls, voice soft and warm as he glances over his shoulder. Shiro mumbles out a greeting, eyes wandering over to the source of music, a small radio sitting over on the windowsill. He doesn't remember having a radio.

“Where'd you get that?” Shiro asks, shuffling over and sitting down in the space Keith cleared for him. He stands up with Shiro's clothes in his arms. 

“Bought it at the new mall after I stopped at the Garrison,” Keith answers as he walks away. Shiro pulls his legs up onto the couch and stares at the pile of clothes Keith had tossed back into a basket.

“The Garrison? Why were you there?” Shiro finds himself asking before he can think better of it.

“They wanted an official report on why I had returned,” he hums, sitting back next to Shiro, starting his work again. “When I got here I kinda just demanded they tell me where you were and told them to hold onto my ship. Sam could only hold them off from coming to get me for so long, figured instead of having them show up here I'd meet them and get it over with.”

“Oh,” Shiro muses. It's the only thing that comes to mind. The thought of Keith showing up guns blazing at Shiro's alleged distress call making him smile more than the morbid notion really should. He really was always ready to save him, no matter the cost.

“What kind of music do you want to listen to? We don't have to just listen to what I like,” Keith offers, not taking his attention from the shirt he was folding.

Shiro considers it, listening to the soft guitar strums and gentle voice of a singer he didn't recognize but gave him a severe sense of nostalgia. “I never really listened to music much,” he thinks aloud.

“Not even before the Garrison?” Keith asks, his movements stalled. Shiro answers with a shrug and wonders why he didn't know Keith liked music enough to look shocked at his answer.

“You like music?”

“Of course,” Keith says, but it's not accusatory, simply a fact. “My pop and I would listen to music all the time. We’d always have the radio on, while we were cleaning, eating. It was just always on in the background.”

“That sounds nice,” Shiro says, feeling Keith shift back against the couch, their shoulders touching. A private smile lit up Keith's face, his gaze distant, remembering something Shiro wished he could share in.

“He used to play guitar and sing for me at night,” Keith says, and it's such a soft and delicate thing Shiro just waits, his breath caught in his throat. “He wasn't amazing or anything, but he could keep a tune. He'd play songs he just knew, couldn't really teach me any of them though. My hands were too small, and he didn't know any of the chords or notes. He'd just play it all by ear.”

“That's amazing,” Shiro says, in awe of the smile he gets to see. One that spoke worlds of his love and admiration for his father. “I couldn't carry a tune if it had a physical weight.”

Keith snorts. “Dork,” he says and then chuckles while he looks at Shiro with that same private smile, as though he deserved that same admiration and love. “My first foster parents taught classical music, you know.”  

“I didn't know that,” Shiro says,  _ I didn't know you had had foster parents at all _ , he thinks. Keith barely told him anything about his time at the home, little snippets here and there painting a lonely picture. He never said anything about being in the foster system before that, and the information hadn't been new enough to be relevant when recruiting him.

“Yeah, they were real old. Thought they'd be stuffy too, only like the classical shit they teach and all that, but the old man would jam to pop music and the old lady loved rock n’ roll,” Keith said with a laugh, shaking his head. “They tried to teach me chords and all that, but I was pretty stubborn back then. I had just lost my dad, and here they were trying to teach me things he should have taught me.”

Keith's smile drops from his face, his fingers moving against the cotton in his hands. “I think they just wanted to give me that connection to him. I hadn't really thought about it until I was out there in our house, pop's guitar right there and I didn't know how to play. I tried to find the old woman again, but your memories can only provide so much information, you know? And not many people were willing to help a kid like me.”

Shiro leans towards him, and their shoulders which had been grazing past each other now sat firmly against one another. Keith slumps against him, resting his head against his shoulder. “Besides, I think she had to move after her husband died.”

“He died?” Shiro asks. Keith nods, clenching his hands, still clinging to the wrinkled shirt.

“Had a heart attack at school while he was teaching. The old lady fought to keep me, but the system thought it was better if I had a younger couple take care of me. They had been in their sixties and seventies and I was only ten at the time. It made sense I guess, but I wish they had just left me alone. I was a brat of a kid, but I liked them. That was the last warm family I had,” Keith says, turning his head to look at Shiro. Their faces were close enough that Shiro could see the sadness pooling in his eyes. “Until I met you and Adam, anyways.”

“I'm glad we could be that for you,” Shiro says, voice barely a whisper. Keith turns his head away. The silence goes on for too long and there is a buzzing in his ears to remind him of his anxiety. He wishes it wasn't just the two of them sitting there with their hearts open and exposed.  “Speaking of family, where’s the wolf?”

“On a mission with my mom,” Keith says, removing himself from Shiro’s side. He folds the shirt he had in his hands with care, brushing out the wrinkles. “After that she's planning to come to Earth for a few quintants. Can she stay here?”

“Of course,” Shiro says, looking at the pile of clothes as Keith efficiently folds the remaining items faster than he had before. The question of when that was going to happen and if that meant Keith was staying in a more permanent manner rose in his throat, he swallows it down before it can make waves.

“Thanks.” Shiro can hear how he means it, but the tense shoulders and the quick finishing of his leisure laundry folding spoke louder than his words. Before Keith could leave Shiro reaches out, grabbing hold of his wrist. The air around them stilled, the music muffled by the pulse in Shiro’s ears.

“Sit with me a little longer?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, eyes wide. “Of course.”

Shiro breathes and the air starts to move again, bringing with it the soft melodies of an acoustic guitar and a woman’s voice, deep and syrupy, a honeyed sound that fills his ears. Keith takes his spot again, a careful distance, but as Shiro lets go of his wrist the hand he caught returns the favor, a loose hold around his own. With his left hand Keith pulls out his tablet, propping up his knee and using it as a makeshift table.

Shiro doesn’t say a word, looking around his apartment. It didn’t quite feel homey or lived in, but there was a brightness to it that he didn’t remember it having before. The soft grays of the wall painted in a yellow, the sun shining through the loose curtains that fluttered with the breeze. Looking back at their clasped hands, Shiro admires the long fingers wrapped around his, rough boney knuckles, a few thin wisps of scars painting the skin. He finds himself humming along to a song he doesn’t know, only realizing far later than he should that Keith was singing along. A soft rasp to his voice, words escaping his lips like a secret.

“I want to paint this room yellow,” Shiro says, eyes still focused on the ridges and dips of Keith’s fingers. “Not bright yellow-yellow, something warm. Like a sunset. And my room too–I want to paint it something else, seafoam or something.”

“Okay,” Keith answers, “we’ll go buy some paint tomorrow,” he says, like it’s that easy. And maybe, Shiro thinks, it is. He just had a way with complicating things.

“Let’s get a bigger couch,” Shiro continues, thinking of how squished they were on the tiny loveseat. “One the wolf can sit on with us,” he adds, because the thought of Keith and his wolf living there with him seemed less like a question now and more like an inevitability. One he was beginning to enjoy envisioning.

“He likes those squares ones,” Keith says, a quirk of his lips making Shiro happy he suggested it. “The ones that are like large platform beds for animals.”

“Are you talking about an ottoman?” Shiro asks, amused by Keith’s description of what his mother had always referred to as a pretentious stool. A platform bed for animals seemed like an appropriate enough description, memories of a pair of black cats curled up in the center flooding his heart with unbearable warmth.

“Yeah, that,” Keith laughs. “When we were at Lance’s his family had one and he just sat there like he thought he was royalty.”

Shiro smiled at the thought. “We’ll have to make sure we get a set then.”

“Something not gray,” Keith says, raising an eyebrow at him. A challenge.

“Something not gray,” Shiro agrees, only a little put out at the idea that he liked the color. It was versatile, practical, but wasn’t his favorite. “What about green?”

“Or blue,” he counters. “He has blue fur after all.” Turning his attention back to his tablet, he flips the page he was looking at, now pulling up some online shopping site. A barrage of couches flooded the small screen.

“Do space wolves shed?” Shiro wonders aloud and Keith laughs.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fandom twitter](https://twitter.com/melonmachinery)   
>  [writing twitter](https://twitter.com/grandmelon/status/1108747952921686018)   
>  [tumblr](http://melonmachinery.tumblr.com/post/183608905053/the-healing-of-twin-flames-grandmelon-voltron)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Painting the apartment becomes a real thing, Keith latching onto this idea and pulling Shiro out of his bed to get it started. He's glad Keith makes him follow through because he is tired of the gray, but he also wishes he hadn't said anything at all because it was just so much effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to just give the biggest shout-out to [CodenameMeretricious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodenameMeretricious/pseuds/CodenameMeretricious) for offering to beta this story!!!!!! I can't even begin to express how awesome they are!!! I'm having so much fun editing and writing this story because of them!! 
> 
> Anyways I really hope everyone has fun with this fairly happy and domestic chapter!

Painting the apartment becomes a real thing, Keith latching onto this idea and pulling Shiro out of his bed to get it started. He's glad Keith makes him follow through because he _is_ tired of the gray, but he also wishes he hadn't said anything at all because it was just so much effort. Too much effort for a man who could barely brush his teeth some mornings.

They start with picking out colors, Keith promises they'll just pick out swatches, get something to eat, and be lazy for the rest of the day. Turns out deciding on colors in itself is a journey. They come back with a bucket of primer-paint for the living room and a book of swatches to throw against the other walls until something looks good.

The warm yellow they bring home, paint P290-5, is everything Shiro had hoped it'd be. Shiro just stumbled upon it and it's exactly the color he was thinking of for the living room and hallways. It’s warm and cozy and will look good day or night. It’s the first paint they chose so it's the first they put up on the walls. Takes them two days before it cures and the coats are done, but instantly Shiro feels a weight lift from his shoulders.

Keith and Shiro debate the kitchen and the bathroom, the only other shared rooms in the apartment, for the remainder of the time. Waiting for paint to dry means flipping through their book and taping cutouts of the colors they like to the walls until one of them gets sick of it and tears it back down.

Keith thinks red for the kitchen, because at least one room should have a statement color. Shiro doesn’t really understand what that means or why he knows this, but he vaguely remembers Adam saying something similar back when they'd daydream about buying a house together. So, he relents under the pressure before helping him pick out PPU2-16, a deep red that he's still worried might be too aggravating or loud for the eyes but holds the punch Keith is looking for. It'd been the only swatch left on the wall, Shiro plucking the squares off just as fast as Keith had been slapping them on, so he decides to go with it.

Painting the kitchen takes another two days simply because there was so much to move and cover up to paint. Shiro has to admit after it's up, the shadows and natural lighting making the red look much calmer than it is. It's just the right amount of in-your-face and Shiro sits in the room just admiring the way it changed the feel of the black granite countertops and dark stained cabinets.

Sometime between the first coat drying and the second starting, Shiro finally notices how Keith holds his breath and his nose twitches involuntary.

After a lot of arguing Keith agrees to wear a filtration mask at home so his nose isn’t so irritated. Shiro himself finds the smell overbearing at times, but the moment Keith puts on the mask he breaks down and admits his half-Galran nose couldn’t handle the intense smells. He promises to continue to wear the mask until all the rooms are done and the smell finally goes away. Shiro counts that as a victory.

The bathroom is the hardest to pick out. They waste six days, almost a full week, just walking in and sporadically staring at the walls before finally asking someone for a third opinion. The lady at the store looks at pictures of the room and suggests purple or a warmer gray, they’re popular choices, she informs them. Neither of them had much of an opinion on what the bathroom was to be colored going in, but Shiro would rather gouge out his own eyes at the sight of a purple room in what should be his safe space, so Keith simply flips pages until they find MQ3-07.

The woman helping them reassures them it’s a great choice and Shiro can’t tell if that’s just because she’s selling them the paint or if it’s genuine. It’s the grayest pink Shiro has ever seen, if it was even pink at all. Keith reassured him it was, but Keith had super vision, and his who’s to say how his Galra eyes might distort the different hues. Keith laughs when he tells him this and mocks Shiro for being colorblind. He strongly disagrees but can't help but smile at the jibe because Keith's laugh is contagious.

Shiro can finally see that the paint really did have some color to it after they finish one side of the room. The color is just a shade different from what's already there, but had enough pink tinting it that the room didn’t feel so cold after they finished. A pleasant surprise. Most importantly the paint didn’t create a jarring scene that’d have him ripping out the cabinets and sink counters, which would be both costly and entirely unnecessary.

Shiro keeps putting off changing the color of his room. He knows it's cowardly, but painting his room means cleaning and moving things and then sleeping out on the couch where Keith could see the full extent of his nightmares. Keith, for his part, understands in that silent knowing way of his. Doesn’t press him for a color Shiro was still afraid to pick out. They instead go back to their normal routine, with the added mess of drop cloths and paint brushes sitting around the house. On the tenth day of his stubbornness, Shiro sits in his room flipping through the colors. He wants to change, he does.

That night he skips dinner, the anxiety in his stomach won't let him eat. Instead he locks himself in his room. By midnight his doors and windows are all open, cold air rushing through. A black garbage bag sits in the hallway, inside, among the suit ties and snotty tissues, is broken glass and a wood frame. The photo he keeps, slips it into a shoebox with the divorce papers, letters, and his wedding ring. He stuffs the box deep into his closet and shuts the door with a finality. Keith stands in the doorframe, a plate of food in his hands and Shiro smiles.

A bright and comforting blue, PPH-35, ends up being for Shiro's bedroom after he mentioned it reminded him of breathing in cold morning air. Keith reassures him that it was a good choice, wouldn’t make him too sleepy, but wouldn’t keep him up at night either. It takes them less than a full day to paint his room. Shiro doesn't even have to sleep out on the couch.

Keith chooses PPU10-03 for his own room, surprising Shiro in more than one way. Green never seemed his color, but upon asking about the strange choice Keith simply states the room his father and him slept in was always green. While it wasn’t his favorite color, it _was_ his father’s, and he always associated it with a good night’s rest. Keith's room only takes about as long Shiro's, but he does sleep out on the tiny couch because the smell is too much for him.

When all the furniture is back in place and the disposable drop cloths are folded up and tossed out, Shiro considers the house project done and realizes that somehow a month had gone by since Keith showed up at his door. A month and Keith is _there_ with absolutely no intentions of leaving. He thinks they still need to talk about why he left in the first place, why the rift between them grew until one of them was stuck on Earth and the other was across the universe. He wants to know, he _needs_ to know what happened. But the smile Keith gives him once he finally takes off the mask at home makes his heart ache and he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

“We should have a party,” Shiro says instead, and what an awful idea it is until Keith lights up.

“I haven’t seen anyone but you since I got back,” Keith says. Shiro knows that’s a big fat ‘yes’ to the party which is a big ‘oh no’ because they haven’t talked about what’s going on. They need to be on the same page because parties meant friends and friends meant questions about what’s been happening and how are things going and why did you get divorced and _why is Keith here living with you now, I thought you two haven’t spoken in deca-pheobs_.

As if sensing his rising panic Keith gives his shoulder a squeeze, like he is the confident older mentor and Shiro is the anxiety-ridden rough and tumble kid needing reassurance. “We can have it when my mom gets here, that’s still a few movements away. We’ll throw a housewarming party, invite just our friends.”

“Does that mean you’re staying?” Shiro blurts out, the question that has been on his tongue since Keith arrived unable to stay hidden any longer. The fear pounding in Shiro’s heart halts its crescendo, shocked into stillness because Keith is pulling him into his arms and hugging him like they haven’t seen each other in years, not like they’ve been living together in an awkward limbo for a full month now.

“Yes, Shiro,” Keith says, voice as steady and strong as the arms around him. “I’m staying, for as long as you’ll have me.”

“What if that’s for a very long time?” Shiro whispers, a hesitant hand resting at Keith’s side.

“I’d stay forever if you let me,” Keith says, and Shiro’s eyes grow wet and he’s wrapping his arms around Keith and pulling him close. It’s too much to bear because he knows it’s true. Keith is the only one in the entire universe who could say that and Shiro could _believe_ it. Believe it like it’s just another law of the universe.

“Okay,” he says, voice strangled by the knot in his throat.

“C’mon, I still have to make dinner,” Keith says, releasing Shiro from his hold and giving his shoulder another squeeze before walking into the kitchen. Shiro follows like a hopeless puppy, taking his seat at the table as he watches Keith get to work on another meal. He was getting used to the flavor of Keith’s cooking, used to the scene of Keith pulling his hair back and pulling on a plain red apron.

It was so terribly domestic and made his heart ache in such a way that he wonders how he had managed to find the most beautiful and loyal soul to ever exist, and how it could be possible that that soul chose Shiro, time and time again. It begged a question that Shiro wasn’t ready to answer, brought about a feeling he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. This person loved Shiro in ways he could never return, not with how broken he is, but the ache to do so and more was so prominent it scares him.

It was the reason he had left his side in the first place. He had looked into those loving eyes, waking up from a drop to earth so violent it shook Shiro’s universe, and knew he could never be enough. So, Shiro ran, and hadn’t stopped running until the nameless feeling in his chest became something he could ignore.

He should have kept running.

“Wait!” Shiro cries out, eyes finally focusing on the rice Keith had just tossed into their new cooker. The scandal of the unwashed grains shocking him out of his emotional spiral. Keith jumped in his skin, looking at Shiro like he had lost his mind, and maybe it was a bit dramatic, but he couldn’t let Keith make such a horrible mistake. “You have to wash rice first,” Shiro explains, getting up from his silent vigil at the table to take over.  

“Oh,” Keith says. He looks down at the rice, face scrunched up, stuck somewhere between confused and frustrated. Shiro grabs the pot and puts it in the sink. “My bad, Hunk didn’t mention that.”

“He probably thought it was obvious,” Shiro mutters, because it _is,_ and he can’t believe Keith’s been going through his life not realizing it. The dots connect in his head and he turns to the other man who watches Shiro churn the water and rice until it’s nothing but mucky clouds. “You’ve been talking to Hunk?”

“Yeah,” Keith says with a shrug. “Been asking him for recipes, things you might like. He suggested this Japanese fish dinner, so I thought I’d try it out.”

Shiro’s heart stutters in his chest, a heat climbing up his cheeks as he turns his attention back to the rice. “Oh. Well you have to wash it first. Can’t believe you didn’t know that, isn’t your last name Kogane?”

“Yeah?” Keith asks, confused by what that could mean and Shiro stares at him.

“Uh,” he mumbles, the gears in his brain not making contact with each other. “Kogane is a Japanese surname?”

“Oh, is it?” Keith says, eyebrows arched in surprise. “Pop never talked much about his father’s side. His mom’s side was Korean though.”

“You’re Japanese-Korean American and you don’t know that you have to wash rice?” Shiro deadpans, staring at Keith like he’s an alien. He is, but that’s beside the point. Keith folds his arms and shrugs a little, looking embarrassed.

“Uh, Pops was a pretty rough and rugged type of guy? All grilled and barbecued meats and vegetables,” Keith says, looking almost apologetic. “We didn’t really do pasta or rice.”

“Are you telling me your dad fed you, his only son, hotdogs and burgers during the most formative years of your life?” Shiro says, hands stilling in the water. Keith shrugged again, a perturbed look on his face.

“Sometimes steak and beans?” he adds. Shiro laughs a little in disbelief, staring at him with wide eyes. “He was really into the whole southern, cowboy aesthetic I guess,” he says with a laugh. “I think a part of it was just that he didn't know how to cook anything not on a grill.”

“Your dad's name was Cliff, right?” Shiro pours out the clouded water and refills the pot, getting to work on the rice again. “Was that his birth name or something he chose?”

“Both. It was his middle name, but that’s what he went by. His full name was Heath Cliff Kogane,” Keith says. “Gramps had a sense of humor I guess.” Shiro snorted at that and Keith let out a small chuckle.

“Do you remember him? Your grandfather?” he wonders, and Keith shakes his head.

“He was dead long before me. Don't know much about him either, only that Pops ran away from home as soon as he turned eighteen. Never told me why. He was never much interested in talking about himself,” Keith says, twirling a kitchen knife in his fingers. Shiro hums in response, picturing the enigma that was Keith’s father clearly. Clearer than before, even, his head now full of cowboy cookouts and acoustic guitars, singing a child Keith to sleep out under the open sky.

“Is that where you get it from?” Shiro teases.

“Nah, that's all my mom. The way he did it is a lot like you,” Keith teases back. “Redirects the conversation towards you, makes you forget your question in the first place. Always so focused on making sure everyone else is okay, forgets to take care of himself.”

“Hey,” Shiro pouts.

“What about your parents?” Keith asks then, and Shiro looks up when he sees his muscles tense out of the corner of his eye. Keith looks like he’s struggling and Shiro can’t figure out why until he realizes he never did tell him much about his family.

“Well, I was mostly raised by my grandfather,” Shiro says, humming. “But you knew that.”

Keith’s shoulders visibly relax and Shiro gives him a smile. “My dad was already out of the picture when I was born, don’t know anything about him, just that he met my mom in the military, and they divorced once she got pregnant with me. When my mom’s best friend heard she was alone and pregnant she moved in with her. They had met during basic and even though she had left the military and my mom had stayed they kept in touch over the phone and stuff.”

Shiro smiles at the memory of his grandfather talking about them. He was always so proud of them, even if they had left Shiro behind. “Anyways, one thing led to another and they fell in love, got married when I was about two years old, and they raised me until I was old enough for school. Once that happened, my grandfather took over as my legal guardian and they both went back into the military.”

“Sounds like your mom was very career driven,” Keith says, not an ounce of delicacy, and Shiro grimaces in agreement.

“Yeah, she was pretty awkward as a mom. Sallee–my other mom, she was always the one there for me, the one making my mom take leave for my birthdays and stuff. When my mom decided she wanted to go back they had a lot of fights. I couldn’t tell you anything specific, I think it was about leaving me, but in the end Sallee decided to go back with her. Promised she’d protect her for me,” he says, eyes on the murky water in his hands. “Then I get my acceptance letter for the Galaxy Garrison and there’s this freak accident. Something on their ship just blew up out in the middle of the ocean and everyone goes down with it.”

There's a long silence then, and Keith looks at him with a reverence he hardly thinks his story deserves. In hindsight he wonders if mentioning that he, in a way, had been orphaned would have helped their rocky beginning. The thought is quickly struck down, knowing another sob story would have done little for the Keith back then. Everyone had people they’d lost, and even then, Shiro hadn't lost everyone. Not until his grandfather passed just before his twenty-fourth birthday.  

“Thank you for telling me,” Keith says, a solemn line to his lips.

Shiro offers him another smile, though it's a little less real and a lot more practiced. Looking back at the pot of rice, he finishes washing it in silence. After he starts the rice cooker, Keith grabs the radio from the other room and sets it on the kitchen counter. Rhythmic beats fill the air, drums that keep a fast tempo, a warm guitar enticing a wiggle here and there. A laugh escapes his chest as he sees Keith trying to hide the impatient shake of his leg as he chops vegetables, the dull thunk of knife on cutting board set in time with the beat.

Shaking his hips and shooting Keith a grin, the other snorts at his tiny dance. Keith rolls his eyes and starts to rock his shoulders, cracking a smile as they break down into giggles. Turning up the music, Keith sets the knife down and holds out a hand. Taking it, Shiro is pulled to the center of the kitchen, moving and twirling and dancing to the island sounds. Awkward limbs moving in and out of time, crashing into each other on their small dance floor, their joy floating in the air between them.

Dinner gets finished somehow. The two using the lulls and song changes to calm down enough to make a sauce for the fish from scratch, pull together a pork and vegetable miso soup that’s just a little too salty, and fry sliced pojuku, a Lusthranian vegetable Keith discovered on his last mission. He swears it’s just an orange eggplant but Shiro's not too sure about that. The music is their third companion, laughter a constant presence that has Keith choking on his food at least twice and Shiro in tears.

They stay up late, talking and laughing and throwing themselves on their little couch, promises to buy a new one now that the painting was done followed by a bunch of unrealistic home renovation ideas. Shiro drinks beer and Keith drinks those strange Galran drinks he bought when he first showed up. Shiro now knows they’re the equivalent of beer for Galra. He thinks Keith is joking when he tells him he can’t get drunk off human alcohol, but he takes his word for it when Shiro takes a sip and it burns like liquor down his throat. He can’t move his arms or legs how he wants after that and keeping his eyes open becomes impossible.

Keith drags him to bed and Shiro clings and clings and complains because Keith isn’t nearly drunk enough. Keith is drunk, though, and his face is flushed and he’s speaking too much and Shiro throws a hand up and shushes him, his ears are sleepy he tells him. They laugh and laugh, and they fall asleep wrapped up in each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fandom twitter](https://twitter.com/melonmachinery)   
>  [writing twitter](https://twitter.com/grandmelon/status/1110252129648893952)   
>  [tumblr](http://melonmachinery.tumblr.com/post/183703744613/the-healing-of-twin-flames-grandmelon-voltron)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you have dreams?”
> 
> “Dreams?”
> 
> “Nightmares.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! It's been a bit, but I promise I haven't forgotten this fic! April was just crazy because of work, but now that it's over I'll be writing more and hopefully posting more too! This isn't quite the angst part yet but it's building up I promise LOL! Anyways I hope everyone enjoys!

Shiro stares at the off-white walls and wonders if he made the right choice in coming back. A reassuring word of being just outside had Shiro wondering if Keith would be disappointed with him if he left before his appointment started, but then the door was opening and in walked a tall woman with files in hand.

“Welcome back, Shiro,” greets Dr. Berrera. Shiro gives an awkward wave and tries not to fidget too much in the plush pleather seat. “It’s been three months since our last meeting.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Shiro says, guilt overcoming him, and she shakes her head as she sits down.

“There’s no need to be sorry. Is there anything you'd like to start off with?”

“Not particularly,” Shiro says and she nods.

“Alright then. Last we spoke we were coming up on your sixth month of separation. How are you feeling about it now?” she says, leaning back into her chair and pulling her notepad into her lap. The reminder of Curtis is fresh, but not as raw, and he shrugs.

“Not as bad,” he admits. “I mean, it's not like I feel great about it. But it, it's a little different now. I put away my ring.” She doesn't accuse him of being a horrible person, she never does, but as Shiro stares down at his ringless finger he feels like she should. He thinks of Keith, waiting patiently for him by the park across the office, and flushes in shame.

“That’s good! Tell me what's changed,” she says, looking up from her notebook and resting her wrist against her knee.

“It’s not,” Shiro starts, “well. It is good, but I didn’t do it on my own. I have a friend staying with me and he’s kind of the reason I’m even here right now.” The admission feels too much like a confession of sin. He tries to ignore the itching at the back of his neck as she looks at him in soft surprise.

“A step with help is still a step,” she offers him, scribbling something down in her book. “This friend, is he someone we’ve talked about before?”

“Keith Kogane,” he says, and she nods. “We’ve known each other since way before the Kerberos mission.”

“Yes, I remember him. Our first few sessions you told me more about him and the rest of your friends than yourself,” she reminds him. Shiro sinks further into the chair and sighs. “Something bothering you?”

“What isn’t bothering me?” he sneers, eyes widening with a flush as he apologizes for his rude behavior. She waves it off, as she always does, and they start talking about how Keith ended up living with him. How just the other day they ended up drunk in Shiro’s bed. If she is surprised, she doesn’t show it. It’s like everything he tells her is just another fact she takes in, nothing that warrants shock or unease.

“Are you worried about sleepwalking again?” she asks after Shiro tells her about their drunken night together. Shiro makes a face, he hates the term. It doesn’t portray the severity or danger of the situation. “Your general practitioner had prescribed medication to prevent your somnambulism,” she continues. “Are you still taking it?”

“No.”

She nods, like she knew that was his answer, and writes something else down in her notepad. “And why is that?”

“It made it worse,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck again. He could feel a rash starting there under the constant abuse. “I’d wake up in even more of a daze, I broke my bedroom door and after that I just stopped.”

“Have you had any incidents since Keith’s arrival?”

Shiro shakes his head. “Nothing major, I’d wake up disoriented, but I could get a hold of myself pretty quickly after. Hearing Keith in the other room helps sometimes–it feels like when we were all together. When we were on the Castle of Lions having familiar voices around helped,” he explains, folding and unfolding his fingers in his lap. “I think what happened with Curtis was a result of being too close to realize where I was. It didn’t give me the same time to process what was happening.”

“That’s a good observation,” she says, smiling at him. “Did the alcohol have any negative effects after waking up?”

“Yeah,” Shiro grimaces. “I was still a little drunk when I woke up. I don’t know what really happened, just that when I _really_ woke up, I was pinned, and Keith had a black-eye. He keeps telling me it’s his own fault for not leaving but–I just. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Are you worried about attacking him?” she asks, and Shiro knows she means that in the lethal sense.

“No, and yes,” he whispers. The room seems suddenly too bright, like spotlights in an interrogation and Shiro is guilty on all chargers. “He can handle himself–he’s strong. Really strong, and a skilled fighter. I don’t think he could be bested by me when I’m that disorientated, but I don’t want to hurt him. I know fighting me hurts him.”

“You mean emotionally,” she hums and Shiro nods.

He closes his eyes, brow pinched as he tries to erase the memory of heartbreak in his best friend’s eyes.

“Have you tried walking your friend through your dreams?”

“What?” The world stops spinning and Shiro stares at her in surprise. She doesn’t spare him a glance as she continues to write down whatever it is she thinks is noteworthy.

“Have you ever tried talking to him about them? Has he ever talked to you about his dreams?”

“He doesn’t–I don’t even know if he has any like that.” An unpleasant twist in his gut and Shiro glances at the door. “We don’t really talk about things like that.”

“From what I understand, you two have gone through a great portion of the war together and he is one of your closest friends,” she says, looking for him to confirm and he nods again. “It is naive to think your friends don’t have their own nightmares to deal with. If Keith is a friend that you feel comfortable in confiding in, I suggest you try it. You don’t have to go into too much detail, and you don’t have to talk about when you were held captive. Just talk to him about the things he will remember, things he will understand. He might have a different perspective of the same events.”

Shiro shrugs his shoulders, a stubborn noncommittal, and they move on. They talk about Curtis and they talk about the Atlas. They talk about Adam, and the question that hovers between Keith and Shiro. He leaves the office feeling a little better about having gone in and a promise to return to weekly sessions.

“So, it went well,” Keith assumes as soon as Shiro reaches him. He is sitting on a bench looking onto a fountain of lions. Shiro takes the spot offered him, and feels a private amusement knowing that Keith had been sitting in the center of the bench to ward off potential strangers.

“It was okay,” Shiro says, voice ticking up an octave at the end. He winces at the jarring sound and the leer Keith gives him. “She’s given me homework,” he concedes, knowing that by mentioning it he has both pleased Keith and prevented himself from getting out of the awkwardness to come.

“What is it?” he asks, and sure enough he’s turning to Shiro with a satisfied noise in his throat.

“She knows that you’ve been staying with me,” he says, trying to give Keith some context. “And I told her a lot about what we went through together as Paladins and then as leaders in the war against Honerva before, so now that you’re here with me she wants me to, uh, talk about some of the things that happened. With you. If you’re okay with it, that is.”

“That’s all?” Keith asks, genuine in his surprise and Shiro colors. “Shiro, you know I’m always here if you need to talk.”

“I know,” he says, because he does. “It’s just. You know, hard, sometimes. I’m not that great at opening up.”

“Yet you somehow managed to get everyone else to,” Keith teases, knocking their elbows together. “But seriously, Shiro. I’m here for you.”

“Right,” Shiro breathes, trying to remind himself that those words were the most solid thing in existence. He could trust them. “So, you ready to go furniture shopping?”

“No, but Mom’ll be here at the end of the week so we probably should get it over with now, huh?” Keith says, standing up and stretching out his neck. Shiro spots the bruise around his eye, an ugly yellow now, and his heart stutters, just as it has every time he’s seen it since giving it to him a few days ago. It’s almost gone, but the reminder twists his heart.

Shopping goes by quicker than either of them had expected, finding the perfect couch at the second shop they enter. It’s an L-shaped couch with a matching ottoman, navy blue. Having it delivered and carrying it up to their apartment takes the rest of the afternoon. They buy takeout and crash on their brand-new couch, Keith takes the corner and Shiro takes the other end, propping his feet up on the ottoman that takes up more space than he originally thought. The old couch is pushed up against the wall until one of them feels like taking it down to the local donation center.

“Do you think the wolf will like it?” Shiro asks, twirling the neon pink noodles with his plastic fork. Keith hums, tossing another ‘authentic’ Altean meatball in the air, the dry ball plopping into his mouth. He chews it thoughtfully, rolling his head against the soft cushion, eyeing Shiro slurping up some of the sour noodles.

“Yeah, it’s perfect,” he says, glancing down at Shiro’s feet propped up on the ottoman. “You’re going to lose your new footstool when he gets here.”

“That’s fine,” Shiro says, pulling his feet back and letting them thump on the floor. Throwing his takeout box on the side table. “You want a drink?”

“Like water?”

“Like alcohol,” Shiro chuckles.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Keith asks, looking over at him in surprise. Shiro flushes and he shrugs. “Okay, yeah. Sure.”

Shiro heads to the fridge, grabbing two bottles of beer with his human hand and two Galran cans that are twice the size with his Altean. He still can’t pronounce the name and every time he tries Keith just laughs at him and repeats it back in a frustratingly perfect accent. Shiro’s sure it’s only possible if a person has the ability to make the same animalistic noises that allow Keith to purr when he thinks no one is listening.

Keith reaches up in a childish grab of hands. Laughing, Shiro tosses him the cans, plopping down next to him, their thighs and arms flush together. There are no questions, no raised eyebrows, no huff of surprise, Keith just opens his can and settles against Shiro’s side, drinking the liquid that could make Shiro gag like it was apple juice. Shiro savors the bitter taste of his own beer on his tongue and the arm that wraps around his.

“Lance and Coran will be here a few quintants after my mom, and Hunk and Romelle are already planet-side, they docked yesterday,” Keith says, stiff for a second, before letting his head fall against Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro rests his head against the top of Keith’s and smiles into the lip of his bottle as he takes another drink. “Pidge is in orbit but can zip on down here whenever.”

“Sounds like a party,” Shiro deadpans and Keith snorts in response. He wants to say something, thank him for being there with him. Thank him for putting up with his selfish need for physical contact coupled with his need for distance. It's hot and cold and must be annoying, but Keith just takes it all in stride.

“You're okay with that, right? I know you haven't really talked to anyone in a while,” Keith says, staring down at the unopened drinks sitting between their legs. Shiro knows he's considering his options, how much they should drink, how much they should talk. They’ve been stuck in a balancing act for a whole month, the scales tip a little back and forth and Shiro thinks maybe today’s the day he takes the plunge.

“Not since the last time we all met up for Allura,” he whispers and Keith doesn’t say anything to that, just brings the can of his floral smelling alcohol to his lips. Shiro crushes the rest of his beer in one go and opens the other, taking another long swig and Keith is looking at him with wide eyes. “Do you have dreams?”

“Dreams?”

“Nightmares,” Shiro amends and Keith’s lips fall into a hard line and he focuses his eyes forward, away from them.

“Yeah,” he says it like a secret. Like he doesn’t want Shiro to know but will tell him anyways because he asked, and if there’s one thing Shiro knows about Keith it’s that he’s always so open, so ready to answer all of Shiro’s questions.

“Sometimes they’re too much, and the memory of them makes it hard for me to be close to people,” he tells him, letting his weight rest a little heavier against Keith’s side. “Especially you.”

“Me?” Keith asks, both hands wrapped around the can sitting loosely in his lap.

“Nightmares of you hurt. Dying,” he says, heart climbing into his throat. “Of me killing you. Keith–I get so afraid that it’s real. That it isn’t a dream, and when I wake up from that I feel like if I touch you, I could hurt you. But then I have days like these were the emptiness is so large and expansive and it feels like I’m back in Black’s consciousness and I need to touch you to know you’re here and I’m real.”

Tears are forming in the corners of his eyes and Keith hasn’t said a word. Shiro slams his eyes shut, the anxiety in his stomach bubbling up into a full-on attack and then Keith is moving. He’s slow, careful. The bottle in Shiro’s hand is removed and fingers are pressing into the back of his neck, rubbing small circles and coaxing him to open his eyes.

He does, and swirling pools of understanding and adoration stare back at him.

“You’re real,” Keith tells him. “And I’m here, and I’ll always be here.”

He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve this loyalty and love and devotion, but there’s no changing what makes the universe up. There’s no unraveling the fabrics that hold it together, and there’s no undoing the unwavering feelings of his best friend. “I could hurt you,” Shiro says, tears falling as the crushing reality of how precious this person knocks the air out of his lungs. “There are so many ways I could hurt you–I’m still not myself.”

“Shiro,” Keith says his name like a prayer and a plea. “I will always be here for you. Just let me in.”

“I almost killed him,” he whispers, afraid as arms wrap around him and he hides his face against Keith’s shoulder. “I was dreaming, and I woke up because something moved and I just _attacked,_ Keith. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and I didn’t even realize what I was doing until he passed out.”

“But he’s alive, and you called for help,” Keith says, shifting his hold to pull Shiro further into his embrace. He wants to ask how he could possibly know. The realization that Keith has that much faith in him makes him curl around the other further, until they’re both huddled in the corner, trying to hide from the world. From reality.

“I did,” Shiro admits, the words felt like pulling teeth. “I did but–Keith, it was awful.”

“I can imagine,” Keith says, the hand cradling the back of his head shifting up until fingers are scratching at the short hairs.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “Atlas–she was holding me down and erasing my memories as I had them, and I didn’t _know._ ” His heart grows colder with every tear escaping from his shut eyes. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to show Keith the ugliness. He knows he knows. Keith knows far too much of him. He knows the blood that’s been on his hands, the nightmares that plague his sleep, the deep-seated fear that has him wishing it would all just end, and all he wants to do is scream ‘ _don’t look!’_

“I still have nightmares,” Keith hums, coming back to Shiro’s original question. The sound vibrating and loud under Shiro’s ear. “I know the others do too. It’s hard not to after all we’ve been through. You’ve been through the worst of it, Shiro. No one expects it to be easy.”

“Maybe, but you’re not trying to murder anyone you meet in your sleep,” he says. The comparison pricks him the wrong way and Keith goes so still Shiro fears he offended him, but then the pressure against his back and head is back and a deep sigh almost jostles Shiro out of his spot resting against him.

“No, not anymore,” Keith says, an exhaustion to his voice that tells Shiro something is wrong. It’s so wrong it makes his hair stand on end. Pushing himself off the other and seating himself properly he watches as Keith stares into the distance, curled into the corner of the couch.

“A comprised mind is a compromised mission,” he says, repeating it like a mantra only he was meant to hear, tapping his head. “The Blade may be a relief organization now, but they've spent longer than we have dealing with trauma and what it does to a person.”

“What is it like?” Shiro asks, and all tears are wiped from his eyes and all signs of weakness are locked back up. He knows it’s one step forward and two steps back, but the need to protect himself and Keith from the feelings building under his skin is too strong.

“Not much different from here, but they treat trauma like it's to be expected. Maybe it is,” Keith says. “It's not considered a weakness so much as an inevitably. They root you in things to keep you grounded, and focus on attacking your traumas head-on, systematically. Like it's just another part of the routine.”

“That doesn’t sound that different,” Shiro agrees and Keith grabs his forgotten drink and downs it in one go, just as Shiro had not a few minutes before.

“Yeah, the only difference is they rip the traumas out front and center for you to face. Gives you a starting point,” he mocks. “What they don’t realize is that it brings up traumas you’ve already put to rest, too.”

“Are you talking about the trials?” Shiro asks and Keith shrugs.

“Similar. Same concept, more focused. It’s like they take a spoon and scrape up all the crap inside your head and place it in front of you.”

“That bad?” Shiro asks again, hesitant to put a hand on Keith but wanting to somehow show he cares. He settles for shifting a smidgen closer, barely a centimeter, but he knows Keith can tell by the way he turns back to face him.

“It’s a little like reliving it,” Keith admits, with a wry grin. “There’s some things you burry so deep that when they’re brought back up it’s like drowning. I didn’t actually finish the program, but some of it helped. Gathering information instead of driving my blade into the first thing that moves is helpful.”

“When you wake up?” Shiro asks, eyes wide and Keith shrugs again.

“There’s a reason I always slept alone,” he says, like it’s common knowledge. “Why I tied the scabbard to the blade.”

“You used to take naps around others,” Shiro accuses and Keith shrugs.

“It’s different,” Keith says, and Shiro knows it is because he naps all the time. Tries to catch up on the sleep that forever eludes him. “Still feel the same as before?”

“Huh?” Shiro wonders and Keith shakes the empty can at him as he stands up. It might not have been a good idea, but they’ve talked more about what bothers them tonight than they have in years. “Yeah,” he says. Keith pauses and turns to him with a thoughtful expression before his lip quirks up on one side.

“Goodnight, Shiro,” Keith says, and despite the cold feeling he gave off not moments before, Shiro’s heart flutters at the warm way he says his name. He tosses the cans in the kitchen and heads to his bedroom before Shiro can say another word.

He fears for a moment that maybe he went too far, maybe it was a mistake, but as he passes Keith’s room on the way to his own, he sees the door is cracked open, just as it has been since he arrived. A silent invitation, apology, and extension of his caring. A way to tell Shiro he wasn’t shutting him out.

Shiro leaves his bedroom door open that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fandom twitter](https://twitter.com/melonmachinery)   
>  [writing twitter](https://twitter.com/grandmelon/status/1123258499616649221)   
>  [tumblr](http://melonmachinery.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro stands in the middle of a familiar desert except there's about a foot of water as far as the eye can see. He feels it soaking his shoes and pants. It’s cold, and laps at his legs as he walks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW: Mentions of grooming** during Shiro's talk with his doctor. It's mentioned in passing and is an irrational fear of Shiro's (as explained in the scene.) The actual sexual abuse in the tags won't be discussed until later and have nothing to do with Shiro and Keith's shared past or relationship.

Shiro stands in the middle of a familiar desert except there's about a foot of water as far as the eye can see. He feels it soaking his shoes and pants. It’s cold, and laps at his legs as he walks. He wanders aimlessly, the sun beating down at his neck. Eventually he hears the roar of a waterfall. Walking up to the edge of the gorge he watches it fall down red rock and clay. Thirty some meters down dark waters stare back up at him. He backs away from the ledge, watching a few rocks wash away into the ravine.

Walking back into to the center of the desert he sees a building in the distance. A two-story house with a tree, yellow-green leaves falling from the branches. Shiro wades through the water, stepping closer, entranced by the color twirling through the air. No wind to change their course. They fall next to the trunk. Floating, spinning, gathering in clumps.

“What are you doing here?” a familiar voice calls. Shiro turns his attention back to the house, a person there, leaning over the railing of the porch.

“I came to see you,” he answers, grinning as he steps up onto the dry wood. Keith stands there in front of him, clad in his white and red jacket. The scar on his cheek stretches as he opens his mouth in surprise.

“Oh,” Keith says. “It’s been awhile. Do you want to come in?”

Shiro nods and Keith opens the front door, it screeches as it pushes open, the hinges rusty. The inside is worse than the outside would lead one to believe. The wood is rotting, and the tables are piled high with stuff. There's some sturdy pillars, made of steel, but the whole place looks one step above decrepit. “Sorry. Probably not what you expected, is it?”

“It's fine,” Shiro says. He remembers the kitchen and dining room, and the door right before the stairs. He notices the lock is missing. “Where's the padlock?”

“Huh? Oh, that's gone now,” Keith says. “Sometimes I visit Pop there, but it’s mostly for Mama.”

“They came back home?” Shiro asks, and Keith lights up with such a smile it stuns him.

“Let me show you the rest of the house, it's been awhile since you last were here,” Keith says. The upstairs is nice, but rot is starting to form on the floor and there's a few holes in the floorboards.

There’s a total of six rooms, all of the doors are shut and when Shiro opens them a cloud of dust hits his face. The rooms are nice, though dusty. Well kept. The first room Shiro opens is full of robots and plants. Keith walks in with him, watches him explore the room. He dusts off a model spaceship. Shiro takes a second before returning with Keith to the hall. The next room is sunshine and seashells, luxurious pillows and stuffed animals. Two closed windows with the shades open, letting the sun illuminate the disturbed dust.

The next two rooms are similar. One smells of spices and is littered with little electronics and doodads that Shiro can’t make heads or tails of. The fourth is a room of gardens and tea parties. Keith doesn’t walk in this time, just waits at the doorway, one arm crossed over his stomach. Shiro doesn’t linger any longer, just leaves and shuts the door. Another room has shelves of blades and tee-shirts cover the floor.

He doesn’t need to open the last door to know what’s inside, a room big enough to house two hoverbikes and a standing toolbox.

Shiro grins, running up to the dusty old things, letting his hand run along the handles. “I can’t believe how long it’s been,” Shiro whispers. “Do you ever take them out?”

“Not lately,” Keith chuckles, walking up to him he stands at the other side. “Do you wanna take them for a ride? Might need a little fixing up first.”

“You know I do,” Shiro laughs. “But he’ll kill me if I’m not home soon. You know how he gets.”

“What if you don’t go? What if you just stay here instead?” Keith asks, and Shiro looks at him in surprise. He wants to, wants to tell him yes, but he shouldn’t. He can’t. A moment of silence passes between them and Keith’s face falls into a sad smile, knowing what Shiro is unable to say to his face. Shiro drops his hand from the hoverbike and Keith walks out of the room. “I’ll walk you out.”

Shiro follows Keith back down stairs and notices a door he’s never seen before. It's chained, locked, and boarded up. “Where’s that go?” he asks, turning to Keith, looking down at the now small boy. The younger Keith looks up at him, turning his head back to the door.

“You don’t wanna know,” the child says. “It's nothing you want to see.”

“What's in there?” Shiro asks and Keith looks back at him.

“You already know,” he says. “You're not the real monster, Shiro.”

“What?”

He wakes up with a jolt, eyes blinking as he focuses on the walls. The morning light is bright, and the dream he had is slowly fading like an old picture under the sun, but an anxiety is creeping in his stomach and Keith’s words from the night before rise to the surface.

_‘Why I tied the scabbard to the blade.’_

It plays in his head, going around and around, but he can’t make sense of why it’s important. Why something feels so out of place. He looks over at the open door, music already drifting in and the sounds of pots banging together in the kitchen. Rolling over on his side Shiro groans, rubbing a hand through his hair and trying to calm the beating of his heart.

“Shiro?” Keith calls, pushing open the door. “You up?”

“How’d you know?” Shiro grumbles, blinking at him and noticing two plates in his hands.

“Heard you,” Keith says, laughing as Shiro complains about super-hearing. Not a moment after Keith is climbing into bed, perfectly balanced as Shiro pulls himself up against the headrest, stuffing pillows behind him as he accepts the plate offered to him. Keith sits cross-legged stuffing some eggs in his mouth.

He is beautiful, the light from the window shining down on him, black curls lick at his neck. Keith’s comfortable sitting there. Like it was his bed as much as it was Shiro’s, and something hot rolls in Shiro’s gut. Hot and cold clash and his stomach churns like a stormy sea. Something dark and possessive floats to the surface and it brings shame and guilt with it. He feels ill.

“Got a hangover, lightweight?” Keith asks around the food in his mouth. Shiro blinks once and shifts his hold on his plate, grabbing his fork.

“I’m not a lightweight,” Shiro pouts, poking at his omelet. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“There’s nothin’ to be sorry about,” Keith says, shoveling another mouthful in. “You got another appointment today, right?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, cutting a piece of his omelet and eating it. He hums, smiling around the taste of peppers and sausage. Keith pulls out his comm, typing away. “What time is your mom gonna be landing?”

“Noon,” Keith says, a blinding grin on as he reads whatever he’s reading on the little screen. “She’s in orbit but waiting for clearance to land here in Arizona, says it’ll be a little before they find a lot for her to leave the ship during her stay.”

“Alright,” Shiro says, “do you wanna meet up after?”

“Hm?” Keith hums, looking up at Shiro.

“After you pickup your mom,” he explains, looking at the clock sitting on his dresser. “We could hit a late lunch or something.”

“I’m going with you to your appointment,” Keith says, looking at Shiro with a disbelieving smirk. Like Shiro was missing something obvious. “Mom doesn’t need me to pick her up.”

“But all you do is sit at the park for an hour!” Shiro complains, baffled by his best friend’s decision to waste time waiting for Shiro instead of seeing his mom and wolf. Keith raises an eyebrow at him and takes a forkful of omelet to Shiro’s mouth. “What the?” Shiro manages before he shoves it in, laughing as Shiro is forced to eat more of his cooling breakfast. Shiro chews, huffing in frustration.

“It’s a nice park, and I don’t mind waiting for you,” Keith says, finishing the rest of his omelet and crawling off the bed. “I’m going to take a shower. When you’re done don’t forget to fold your laundry and put it away.”

“Sure, Dad,” Shiro mutters, looking at the basket of laundry sitting by the door. “When the hell did you even do that?”

“It’s amazing what you can do when you actually wake up in the morning,” Keith laughs, leaving the room. Shiro flops back against his pillows and takes another bite, sighing as he lets his eyes fall closed.

Keith wakes him up a good thirty minutes before they normally leave, and Shiro’s heart throbs because the laundry he was supposed to put away is already folded in its drawers. All the attention and help is too much sometimes and this is one of those times. An overwhelming wonder and guilt consumes him the rest of the morning.

The hand that brushes against his as they walk to his appointment burns, but Shiro can’t bare the look of disappointment in Keith’s eyes when he pulls away from the innocent touches.

“You’re afraid you’re a terrible person because of the return of an intimate friendship,” Dr. Berrera says only ten minutes into their session. Shiro groans into his hands and feels darkness lapping at his feet, threatening to pull him down under.

“Don’t say it like that,” he begs, and she writes something else down on her mysterious notebook.

“There’s more than one type of intimacy, Shiro,” she reminds him. “Are you worried about other people would say about your current living arrangements?”

“No,” Shiro says, looking up at her in exasperation. “I’m just saying–I mean what does that say about me? That Curtis is gone not even a full year and I’m living with Keith acting like an idiot and going along with this stupid housewarming party all because he,” he chokes, cutting himself off, folding back around himself and staring down at his knees. Everything was getting too complicated and Krolia was arriving today and he was here, talking to a psychiatrist about how he’s afraid he’s somehow disgracing the memory of Curtis simply because Keith lives with him.

“Because?” she hums, looking for him to continue and Shiro rakes his hands over his face.

“Because he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he mumbles. “Since before Curtis, before Kerberos, despite Adam and my first time flying. Meeting Keith has been–has changed my life. I can’t imagine it without him.”

“You know you don’t have to feel guilty about that,” she says, and he flops back into the chair and looks up at the ceiling.

“I just feel like it isn’t fair–to Curtis or him. I love him–I’ve always loved him–but now it’s different and it _feels_ different and it’s terrifying,” he whispers. He feels the coming tears welling up in his eyes and wipes them away before they have a chance to build there. He isn’t going to cry. “I’m too messed up for this.”

“What do you mean by that?” she asks and Shiro feels the fight leaving him.

“I’m incapable of love. I fucked up with Adam and that was before everything that happened! And Keith deserves real love. He deserves _everything_ , and instead he sticks himself with me,” he grumbles, and before he can stop himself, “and it’s all my fault. I–I did this to him.”

“Did what to him?”

Shiro feels a heavy dread settle in his bones, a gagging feeling rising in his throat as acid churns in his stomach. The thought had appeared one day, without any warning, somewhere between Shiro admiring Keith’s hands and marveling the utter devotion he feels for Shiro. It’s sick, and awful, and makes him want to cry thinking about it and he’s about to heave on the tile floor just remembering it.

“What if I–what if I liked him all along,” he whispers, and fear is shaking his hands and closing his throat. “What if I did this to him–made him like this. What if I, I _groomed_ him and he doesn’t know any better because he was just a fucking kid and I,” he sobs, tears pouring down his cheeks and Dr. Berrera doesn’t recoil, doesn’t call the police. She stands up and walks around her desk, hands him a box of tissues, sitting down in the chair next to his and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“There’s no reason for him to stay with me! I’m a fucking mess–I can’t do anything without help and he stays here and wastes his time on me because I,” he continues, voice picking up and heart pounding in his ears.

“Shiro,” she says calmly, calling his attention back to her. “Remember what we talked about when you first started showing up? About your fear that you had secretly wanted to kill those other gladiators during your time held captive?”

He tries to recall the memories. He knows the fear, knows it well since it rears its ugly head at least once a month. The fear that he’s a monster in sheep’s clothing. That what he thought he did to survive was for the pleasure of it and that he was fooling everyone with his good-guy routine. “But that’s not–it’s not the _same_. This is different.”

“It’s the same,” she insists. “Your OCD grabs hold of a feeling, a memory, and distorts it so you can’t remember what’s real and what’s not. Keith is important to you, and your growing romantic feelings for him are the perfect gray area for it to attach to. You just have to remember this is a made-up problem.”

“But I,” he weeps, she shakes her head at him.

“No ‘buts’. Don’t try to reason with it, don’t try to reassure it. Just let it go,” she says, and he wants to refute but he remembers how futile that was the last time and he closes his eyes and gives a shaky nod in answer. “Take a deep breath for me, Shiro.”

He tries his best, and it comes out wobbly and tear soaked, but he does, and he breathes out when she tells him. They continue in a steady rhythm until the tears stop rolling down his cheeks and his breathing returns to a relatively normal state. When they finish Dr. Berrera pulls some tissues out of the box and hands them to Shiro. He tries to wipe away the salty tears and blow his nose, but he still feels so stuffed up.

“We’ll pick back up with ERP next time,” she says, glancing at the clock. “I know this is a lot, but I want you to think about how convenient it is these worries have started now that you’re older and developing feelings for him. Have you ever thought yourself a predator before this?”

“No,” he whispers, and it doesn’t feel right because what if he just didn’t _know_ he was.

“And how often do you find yourself performing mental checks since his arrival?”

Shiro sinks further into his seat, chewing on his lip. The knowing look in Dr. Berrera’s eyes makes what little sense of hope at hiding away crumble. “A couple times a week?” he sighs.

“Despite the rule against reassuring yourself,” she says after a second, collecting his files and writing down a few last-minute notes, “I think talking to Keith about this might help you. I find it sometimes helpful to have patients with this particular brand of reassurance-seeking to talk to someone they fear might hate them for it. If it’s not a secret, it holds less power. But if you do speak to him, I recommend it only be once.”

“Huh?” he asks, and the mere thought of telling Keith anything of the sort has his blood pressure spiking and guilt rolling in his stomach.

“Talk to him,” she says again, looking up, “but only ask him about what he thinks once. If you constantly sought him for reassurance that you’re not a monster it would still hold the same power over you. Talk to him so the fear of him not knowing is no longer a source of power for the OCD, but don’t allow it to change into a new ritual.”

Shiro doesn’t say anything to that, but he promises to think about it. It’s about the only thing he can promise at that moment.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Be proud of the things you’ve accomplished and realize some of them are bigger than you make them out to be. And Shiro, remember, your OCD isn’t you.”

Dr. Berrera walks him to the door, and Shiro spends another five to ten minutes in the bathroom trying to scrub away the signs that he had been crying. He thinks of Keith, sitting on his bed just that morning, a halo glow around his black hair, smiling around the egg in his mouth.

Guilt washes over him all over again, but he braves the last few steps outside and heads straight into the park. Keith is waiting on what is now considered his designated bench and Shiro doesn’t even have to walk all the way over before Keith spots him and stands up. He told Keith a thousand times that he should go pick up his mother, but the other had been so stubborn. Now seeing his impatience and excitement, Shiro wishes he had pressed the issue.

“You look great,” Keith says, every word laced with sarcasm. “Everything okay?”

“Rough day,” Shiro says, knowing that it was enough of a truth to get Keith to back down. “Hear from your mom yet?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, a little brighter but concern still left in his gentle gaze as he pulls out his communicator. “She landed ten doboshes ago. She’s picking up something on her way over to our place, so it won’t be for a little till she gets there. The wolf might already be popping around our apartment though so we should probably go do damage control.”

Shiro’s heart stutters in his chest, his ears growing hot.

“I don’t think they meant cosmic space wolves when they told me pets were allowed,” Shiro chuckles. “You know, you really don’t have to wait for me every time. I was completely capable of taking myself to my appointments before.”

“I like to,” Keith says. “I want to be here, Shiro.”

“Oh,” he says, face flushing and guilt subsiding just the smallest bit.

“Besides, if I left you on your own you might skip them again,” he teases, leaving him behind as he walks back onto the street.

“That was different,” Shiro argues, catching up to him and knocking their shoulders together. “I’m not completely helpless.”

“I know you’re not,” Keith agrees. “But it can be hard sometimes.”

Shiro silently agrees to that. Every day had become such a weight, eventually he couldn't even find the strength to crawl out of bed. He couldn’t find the point in fixing himself when it’d be easier to just stop existing. No one was waiting for him, or at least, he thought no one was. “Should we buy an extra bed? I don’t want you sleeping on the couch the whole time Krolia’s with us.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Keith says, shrugging. They meander amongst the crowds, the smell of fried food hitting their noses. It was the same walk they always made, and yet today Shiro felt such a profound sense of newness. Like everything was in focus. “She can’t stay more than a few movements anyways, Daibazaal is going to be holding another election and she’s going to need to be there. Kolivan will be picking her up in the next few cycles.”

Shiro doesn’t know what cycles mean in terms of time, but the thought that there were things to be done picks at his mind. “Did you leave the Blades?”

“Temporarily,” he answers, a picture of nonchalance. “I’m taking a leave of absence. Not because of you,” Keith adds, like he thinks that’d bother Shiro. It would, and Shiro’s grateful that there doesn’t seem to be any lies or half-truths in what he says. “It’s what took me so long to get back here, a relief mission went pretty south and I just--I needed some time away.”

Shiro doesn’t ask him any further questions, the way Keith wraps his arms around himself speaks to the memories he wants to forget. Shiro knows that it was hard work turning the Blades of Marmora into a relief organization, even harder because the Galra are still widely distrusted in the universe. He remembers the first few times Keith came back from what should have been peaceful missions with bruises and broken limbs. How it didn’t break his spirit, Shiro would never know. Keith was just that strong a person. Whatever it was that had Keith leaving his calling must have been serious, and Shiro wasn’t sure what to do with that heavy information.

Shiro mulls over the words he can’t say but wishes he could. But he can’t, not yet.

“I’m here for you too,” he says.

There’s a stillness in the air for a second, and Shiro stops when he feels the body next to him halt. A hand slides into his and Shiro’s heart leaps out of his chest. He lets knobby knuckles intertwine with his, bites down the tremble he feels when that warm hand squeezes his, tugging him forward.

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come chat about Sheith with me on twitter! 
> 
>  
> 
> [fandom twitter](https://twitter.com/melonmachinery)  
> [writing twitter](https://twitter.com/grandmelon)  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re drunk,” he accuses. 
> 
> “Maybe,” Keith hums, a playful smirk on as he tugs at his fingers. “You are too.”
> 
> “Maybe a little,” Shiro chuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update because it's been awhile and also I'd feel bad about leaving it where it was when it's my birthday. It'll probably be late June before I update again, but I'm really hoping for sooner. Thank you for sticking with me so far!

Loud chatter and laughter, bottles and cans, finger-foods and desserts. It was all the perfect mess of too much to handle and not enough fun to be had. Shiro almost spits out his beer when he feels a nose brushing against his throat, Keith plastered to his side, curling around him like a koala to a tree. Krolia sits on the other side of the couch with the wolf lying on top of her, a large glass of what the gang has taken to calling Galra whiskey in her hands.

“I can’t believe this!” Lance cries out in joy, clapping his hands together. “Keith! Finally drunk under the table! I can’t miss a second of this–Pidge you’re videotaping this aren’t you!?”

Pidge gives him a thumbs up from her spot on the ottoman, laid out with a line of plastic cups sitting at her feet. Krolia huffs in amusement at Lance’s joy. “Keith can’t hold his liquor,” Krolia hums.

“Yeah maybe by Galra standards! Do you know how many drinking games I’ve challenged this guy to!?”

“If you knew his Galra genetics didn’t let him get drunk that easy why’d you challenge him in the first place?” Hunk asks from the kitchen, already bringing out more snacks that Shiro couldn’t name. The three shots he took with Lance had him running to the kitchen like it was his job to provide his drunk friends with the tastiest, albeit messiest, hors-d'oeuvres in the galaxy.

“‘Cause he’s n’idiot,” Keith slurs from his spot, Shiro’s skin tingling where his lips brush against his skin. He can feel all the heat rushing to his face as the other moves further, pulling Shiro into his arms and legs. “You smell so good,” he whispers to him.

“Hey! I thought we were over the name calling!” Lance says, though he’s grinning from his spot on the floor. “Hunk! Let’s have another shot!”

“No way, nuh-uh, I’m already too drunk and I need to get Romelle home–not home I meant the hotel. I need to get us back to the hotel,” Hunk says, sitting down next to Lance as the other pours them two shot glasses full of tequila. “Lance!”

“Keith and Shiro will let us crash here! Right?” Lance says, flashing Shiro a grin. Shiro shrugs in response, glancing over to where Coran and Romelle are slumped against a pile of pillows, a small bottle of whatever Krolia was having between them. “See! Nothing to worry about! Drink up, big man!”

“I don’t know about this,” Hunk says, but he picks up the shot anyways. Shiro laughs at the disgust on their faces as they down another shot. Lance almost chokes on it when Pidge stuffs a finger in his armpit.

“What the quiznack, Pidge! I could have died!” Lance says, slapping her forehead. She grunts, slapping the back of his head before rolling right off her perch and onto the floor.

“Need water,” she mumbles into the rug and Lance grumbles but stands up anyways. His long legs are now long noodles, wobbling this way and that as he makes it to the kitchen. Shiro feels content to just watch, the buzz he feels is warm and comforting, and he’s drunk on the joy of having his friends around him again. Keith won’t stop his nuzzling and that sweet purring noise fills Shiro’s burning ears.

“Aww,” Hunk says from the floor, “he’s like a big kitty-cat! Try scratching his chin!”

“I gotta see this,” Lance says, stumbling back into the living room with water in hand. He places it down next to Pidge’s face before leaning over the coffee table. Shiro rolls his eyes, but the curiosity gets the best of him as he lifts one finger under Keith’s chin and scratches the way he would a kitten. Keith’s purr grows louder, and he sticks his chin out, Shiro barking out a laugh so loud it shocks the body next to him into awareness.

“What?” Keith asks, alert with wide-eyes.

“Dude!” Lance laughs, spit flying as he holds his sides. Hunk his both hands over his mouth and the gooiest expression on.

“Aww! Keith!” he coos, and Keith looks less than pleased with their reactions before stuffing his face back into Shiro’s neck. Shiro nearly jumps in his skin when he feels a hand slipping up the back of his shirt and the sensation of something breathing in deep against him.

“Smell so good,” Keith mutters again, and Shiro tries not to draw attention to it, but his heart is going to fall out of his chest if it beats any harder than it already is. When he feels a nose brush against the the back of his neck he does jump, jostling Keith which only prompts him to wrap around him further. Goosebumps erupt on his skin and a shiver runs down his spine.

He hopes and prays none of their friends notice how out of breath he is or how the flush of his cheeks isn’t only alcohol induced. He sees the not so secretive grins on the two across from him and feels Krolia’s stare like daggers in his side. With a gentle hand he tries to pry Keith off him, but he’s only met with resistance and the pained whimper makes his heart cry out in turn.

Krolia stands up, the wolf falling off the couch and onto Hunk’s lap with a loud thump. “Hey buddy! Who’s a good space wolf?” Hunk laughs. Lance scrambles up into the spot Krolia’s freed and lays out, stuffing a throw pillow under his head.

“This is the stuff man!”

“I believe it’s time for bed,” Krolia says, a hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “Do you need me to take him?”

“I,” Shiro starts, swallowing a lump in his throat. He looks down at Keith, snuggling into his side. “I don’t know what to do,” he quietly confesses. Krolia doesn’t look surprised, just kneels down and looks into his eyes with that motherly comfort that feels so foreign to him.

“Do you want me to take him?” she asks again. There’s no pressure, no scrutiny, just genuine curiosity.

“No,” he says, because if he’s honest he doesn’t want to miss the heat or the feeling of being grounded. Krolia smiles at him, and something akin to embarrassment floods him as she pats his cheek and combs a hand through Keith’s hair, leaning in and whispering something in Galran before placed a kiss on his cheek.

She stands up and leaves the living room, bidding them all a final good night as she and the wolf enter Keith’s room, shutting the door behind them. Keith unwraps himself and looks at Shiro with a dazed smile before stumbling to the hallway closet. He fumbles with the door handle, and Shiro stifles a laugh when Keith silently congratulates himself, performing the tiniest fist pump he’s ever seen, after it opens. Keith pulls out the extra blankets and pillows they had bought naught the night before, a few falling to his feet as he tries to hold them all. He dumps them all on Lance and laughs at the way he squawks.

“What the!”

“Thanks,” Hunk says, getting up onto Shiro’s side of the couch, pulling a comforter over himself. Shiro makes room for him to stretch out, standing up and carrying a few half full cups to the kitchen to avoid accidental spillage in the night.

“You can stay up as long as you like, but none of you can go home,” Shiro says, looking at his mess of friends lying about their living room. “Pancakes in the morning?”

Lance throws him a thumbs up, but his attention is on Keith who’s leaning over the couch giving Lance a hug. They exchange some words Shiro can’t quiet hear over Hunk’s boisterous plans for their breakfast and Pidges groans from the floor as she curls herself up around the blanket she was tossed. Lance wraps his longs arms around Keith and gives him a good squeeze before they’re parting again and Keith is smiling something beautiful as he looks at Shiro and stumbles towards their rooms.

Shiro follows after, enamoured by the way Keith settles a hand on the door knob, a careful look of hesitance before glancing back at Shiro for permission. Walking up, Shiro takes ahold of the hand there and helps him twist it open. They both trip over themselves, laughing at the silliness of it as Keith flops on the bed and Shiro closes the door, the loud voices of their drunk friends muffled behind the wood.

“You’re letting me stay,” Keith says into the blankets, voice breathy with disbelief. Shiro doesn’t say anything, just turns on the bedside lamp and lies down next to him, looks at the eye peeking out from behind thick black hair. He laughs into the sheets, his eyes crinkle and Shiro smiles back so wide it aches.

They crawl up the bed and Shiro yanks the blanket out from under them, tossing one side on Keith as he stuffs his arms under a pillow. When he lies down next to him there’s a tentativeness to the hand that reaches for his. Shiro curls his fingers around Keith's and takes in a deep breath.

“You’re drunk,” he accuses. His heart is doing somersaults and everything feels a little too good to be true. The knowledge that Krolia had actively accepted this arrangement fits in his brain somewhere between mortified and grateful that she trusted her son with him despite knowing what could happen. He bites back a frown at the thought.

“Maybe,” Keith hums, a playful smirk on as he tugs at his fingers. “You are too.”

“Maybe a little,” Shiro chuckles. The low light colors Keith's scar almost purple like his mother's markings. “I'm worried I'll have another nightmare.” The confession comes with a deep sigh from Keith as he settles further against his pillow.

“Then we just gotta stay up all night,” Keith says, closing his eyes.

“You know we can't.” They both yawn in near unison and Keith bursts out into giggles. Shiro’s not sure his heart can take the warmth in his eyes or how the roughness of his voice goes unbelievably soft. 

“No, we can't,” he agrees.

Keith shifts more onto his side and less on his stomach, facing Shiro fully. His lips bow in a frown and Shiro can feel the careful concern in each roaming gaze. “I had fun,” Shiro says, answering the question before Keith has to ask. He looks shocked for just a moment before the careful tick of his lips show his amusement.

“I’m glad,” he tells him. Their hands move together, shifting until fingers intertwine and their breaths have stilled. In a gust of courage Shiro could never muster, Keith leans over and places a kiss to their knuckles. “Thanks.”

“For what?” Shiro asks and Keith shakes his head, unwilling to explain. Shiro accepts that he might not find out what the amused smile on Keith’s lips means, but he doesn’t want to give up the conversation. He doesn’t want to fall asleep, and not just because he’s afraid of what the night might bring him. “So, what did you and Lance talk about? Didn’t know you were that close.”

Keith looks at him in surprise before a huff of air escapes his smiling lips, shaking his head as he grins at Shiro. Belatedly, he realizes what he said could come off as rather jealous and his cheeks feel warm at his own transparency. “Nothin’ much. He’s just happy for me.”

“For you?”

There’s too much of something Shiro isn’t quite ready to touch on even though he’s been dancing dangerously close to it since Keith’s arrival. Keith shrugs one shoulder and leaves it at that, and Shiro knows it’s for his own sake. The crackle of energy between them is something Shiro fears and Keith knows that.

“Stop that,” Keith says, tugging his hand free from their hold to smooth fingers against Shiro’s forehead. “You worry way too much.”

“I worry just the right amount,” he insists. The laugh on Keith’s lips steals his breath away.

“I talk to them all,” Keith says, turning onto his back. Shiro watches over his profile, admires the sharp chin and nose, the soft curve of a grin on chapped lips. He was one step away from a very big fall and it felt like the wind was blowing against his back, pushing him forward to oblivion. “It hasn’t been the same, but I talk to them. Sometimes Lance or Pidge will call at night to tell me a dream they had. They talk to each other a lot to, about what happened. About what’s happening. It just hasn’t been the same without you.”

He wants to tell him that that simply isn’t true, but the pinch in his brow and the faraway gaze tells him he already knows. Things have changed irreparably since their final battle. Their biggest loss.

“I try to remind them that we’re still a family,” he says, words soft like a reminder. “I think tonight’s the first time I’ve seen them all this happy.”

“The other times are a little more formal,” Shiro concedes, the last day to remember Allura had been stiff and awkward at best. Shiro was nearing the end of his marriage, Keith had been off on a mission, and the rest was history.

“It shouldn’t have been formal in the first place, she was family,” Keith spits, a small crease around his nose in his anger. “We shouldn’t have let it come to that.”

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, letting his human hand rest against Keith’s shoulder. Keith shakes his head against his pillow, his long tresses tangling up under his head. There’s a long silence and Shiro scoots a little closer, smells the desert air on Keith’s skin and leans his head down to his shoulder, trying to comfort the other.

He feels Keith stiffen, a twitch of the hand caught between Shiro’s stomach and Keith’s side. Turning back to face him Keith nudges his nose against his hairline and smells, there, his lips pressed firm against Shiro’s forehead. If his eyes were any wider they’d fall out of his head, but he kept himself still, let the hand now cradling his neck pull him closer, half onto his chest. The arm that was caught between them sneaks around his side and pulls him into a gentle embrace.

“You smell so good,” Keith complains and Shiro laughs out loud in shock and embarrassment.

“You keep saying that,” he says, blinking rapidly as he stares at the shadow of Keith’s clavicle. “Also I thought you were drunk? Pretty articulate for someone who was slurring their words earlier.”

“I was tired ‘n comfy,” Keith says against his forehead and Shiro’s whole body thrums with fire and heat. He shivers and knows Keith feels it because he digs his thumb and index fingers into the back of his neck, massaging there, and tingles erupt from the base of his neck and radiate out down his shoulders and chest. “Is this okay?”

Shiro doesn’t know how to speak, let alone respond. His tongue is dead in his mouth and all he can do his gasp and lean closer as the hand holding his side rubs at the spot just below his shoulder blades.

“Feel good?” he asks again and Shiro nods, trying not to think too hard about their position or the leg that’s now slipping up his, knee and calf hooking around thigh, pulling him closer.

“Do you know the Galra like to cuddle?” Keith says, and the admission is so out of place Shiro laughs.

“No, I didn’t.”

“They do,” he says, a smile clear in his voice. “They’re very tactile though they don’t like to show it. This isn’t quite that, though,” he continues, dipping a finger under the back of Shiro’s shirt collar. “Do you hate it?”

“I don’t,” he says, because lying about this feels like it would break the spell. There’s some unseen weight that holds them together, and Shiro doesn’t want it to disappear.

“That’s–that’s good,” Keith says, and it’s the first sign that he’s as nervous as Shiro and Shiro latches onto that with all his might. “Mom says the people you love smell good to you.”

“Yeah?” Shiro says, and he's sure he's going to pass out because Keith had told him he smelled nice at least ten times since his first drink of Galra whiskey.

“Yeah,” Keith confesses and Shiro blinks away some wetness in his eyes before wrapping his arms around Keith as best he can and gives him a squeeze. “I'm really glad you had fun with everyone. It's nice to see you remember that you're not actually that old.”

“Keith,” Shiro grumbles.

“I'm serious,” Keith laughs, though the sound goes a little stiff at the end. “You've always been like that, you act like you were born old. The whole dad-friend thing is fine; you care. That's who you are. But after everything that happened,” he whispers. Shiro's brain catches on the word Keith couldn't bring himself to say. Kerberos. “Look, just because you had to grow up a little faster than most people doesn't mean you weren't still a kid like the rest of us.”

“Keith,” Shiro says again, exhausted. “I know what you’re trying to say but–”

“But what?” Keith asks, and despite the hard look in his eyes his voice remains sweet as sugar, a concerned hand runs through Shiro’s hair. He takes a steading breath and Shiro feels something like an out of body experience as he hears the echoes of himself in the other. “When you look at our friends, what do you see?”

“Kids,” he says easily, because they are. They’re so young. Keith gives him an amused raise of brows and laughs, and Shiro tries to understand where this is going until it finally clicks. Keith takes pity on him, not leaving him with an ‘I told you so,’ but with a delighted smirk that could shave years off Shiro’s life.

“All I’m saying is, it’s okay to relax. Despite what you think, we’re all adults now. You’re not our leader, you’re our friend and we,” Keith says, carding fingers through Shiro’s bangs, “we love you, Shiro. We want you to be yourself, not some persona you’ve put up. You don’t have to be the adult taking care of a group of kids. You don’t have to be a Captain in an intergalactic war. You don’t have to be anymore responsible than the rest of us. You can just be you. You can just be Takashi.”

Shiro pulls back with a start at his name, and the hands that hold him let him go, now loose on his shoulder and back. “You never call me that,” he whispers, because it’s a shock in a way he can’t understand. It’s like ten years of never hearing that name from those lips all come back to him at once and it’s loud and roaring in his ears. Keith stares back at him like a deer in headlights, like he’s afraid he did something wrong. “You can–you can if you want to.”

“I can’t,” Keith says, and his voice is strangled, “it’s not my name for you,” he explains like that makes any sense. Shiro sits up, his hand firmly on Keith’s shoulder.

“It can be, if–if you want it to.”

His hair spills across the pillows and around his neck, his eyes glowing something otherworldly and his lips open in a soundless gasp. If Shiro was braver, if the past that lurks behind his vision wasn’t there, he’d hope to kiss those lips. He needs to muster up some confidence, though. “What’s wrong?” he asks, and it’s a question within a thousand others and Keith looks as panicked as Shiro feels. They’re standing there again, on the edge of something he knows they won’t be able to undo.

“That’s Curtis’s name for you,” Keith argues, shaking his head, “that’s _Adam’s_ name for you. I can’t use it.”

Like a puzzle piece finally falling into place, Shiro lies back against his pillow, Keith turning to him looking as sad and deflated as he feels. Ever afraid to make the plunge, afraid to make the first move. Afraid of what it can do and what it can change and how woefully unprepared he is for the disappointment on Keith’s face. Shiro steals himself against the anxiety in his stomach and the fear in his bones. “I want you to use it. I want to hear _you_ say it, Keith. Please.”

Keith takes his face with shaky hands, their foreheads knocking together as he stares into a galaxy swirling back at him. He knows what’s next, braces himself, fingers curling against the wrists that hold him. His eyes flutter closed with the whisper between them.

“ _Takashi_.”

He falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come chat about Sheith with me on twitter! 
> 
>  
> 
> [fandom twitter](https://twitter.com/melonmachinery)  
> [writing twitter](https://twitter.com/grandmelon)  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

“So you love him,” Matt says over the screen with an exhausted expression. “What’s the big deal?” 

 

“The big deal is we’re friends who stopped talking for years and suddenly we’re living together and it hasn’t even been a full year since Curtis and I split,” Shiro sighs, slumping against his bed and tossing the communicator down on his pillow. 

 

“Are you even dating?” 

 

“Yes? No?” Shiro groans. “I don’t–I don’t know. We got drunk at the housewarming party and we talked and I know that it wasn’t a strictly platonic conversation, but when we woke up everything just went on as normal. He didn’t even say my name.” 

 

Shiro looks back at the bedroom door, the muffled sounds of laughter and a loud clang. Lance’s voice carrying through, complaining about how harsh Keith is with him. Asking him to be gentle. 

 

“You’re sulking because he ignored you?” 

 

“He didn’t ignore me. It’s just I,” Shiro sighs, rolling onto his side. “I asked him to call me by my first name. And he did, but once he woke up it was just ‘Shiro’ again.” 

 

“Maybe he’s just not used to calling you that,” Matt reasons, and Shiro shrugs, though he knows from the camera angle his friend can’t see.

 

“Maybe.” 

 

“Or maybe it’s just like something he only wants to use in the bedroom?” 

 

The laugh grates on his nerves. “We didn’t have sex, Matt,” Shiro says. 

 

He was used to Matt’s teasing back in the day, when they were kids. He wouldn’t stop pestering him about Adam, but the teases were glaringly absent when he met Curtis, and now for him to just continue on with Keith like it was normal was strange. Shiro wasn’t sure how he felt about it, and he certainly didn’t like the idea of callous sex jokes involving Keith. 

 

“You keep saying that but I don’t know,” he hums. Shiro can see him spinning in his chair, as carefree as always. 

 

“Matt,” Shiro warns, because Matt was stepping into dangerous territory and not even their long-standing friendship would stop Shiro’s anger if he said the wrong thing. 

 

“Right, fine, okay. You didn’t have sex, you don’t know if you’re dating. You’re just two best friends who love sleeping in the same bed and whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears. I get it,” Matt deadpans, stopping his spin and staring at the video camera.

 

“We don’t do that!” Shiro hisses, grabbing the comm and turning down the volume, glancing back at the closed door. He could still hear the mumblings of a conversation and Pidge going on a tirade about something he missed. 

 

“Yeah-huh, anyways. I think you’re overreacting, just ask him. It’s been, what, two days?” 

 

Shiro lets out a long sigh. If his grandfather’s superstitions were real, he’d surely have let out the last of his soul within the past hour. “Everyone’s still in town so there’s no time to really talk about it.” 

 

“I thought you just said he’s been sleeping in your room,” Matt accuses, two raised eyebrows and a crooked-grin that tells Shiro he wasn’t going to buy his excuses. 

 

“Just until everyone leaves! Lance took the couch and Krolia has his room,” he explains, even in his own ears the defense felt flimsy. He was digging his own grave. 

 

“He slept in the same cave as his mother for two years I’m pretty sure he could just share the bed with her. Face it, he likes sleeping in your room. Together. With you,” Matt says, pointing at the screen. Shiro’s face lights up, he can feel the heat on his cheeks and nose.

 

“I get it already,” Shiro pouts, “no need to be mean.” 

 

“Well for a second there I was pretty sure you were going to get it in your head that I just meant he loves the lighting of your room or how firm your mattress is or something equally stupid. He crossed the universe for you– _ multiple _ times, Shiro. I’m pretty sure he’d sleep on porous rock covered in biting insects if it meant having you next to him.” 

 

Shiro closes the call the second the door opens, slams his heart closed because he can’t think of what Matt is saying when Keith is walking into Shiro’s room, one hand still on the door knob as he looks back out into the hall. He settles his gaze back on Shiro who’s sitting on his bed with his comm tight against his chest and smiles. 

 

“Hey,” he says. 

 

“Hi,” Shiro squeaks, “what’s up?” 

 

Keith flashes a bemused grin. “You okay there?” 

 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Shiro lies, but it’s harmless enough that Keith doesn’t press him further. His heart ticks up a beat, fluttering a little faster. Keith looks back out the hallway again. 

 

“Well, you kind of look like I caught you watching porn,” Keith laughs, glancing back at him. Shiro’s tomato red and ready to crawl under a rock. “Lance and Pidge want to go out for lunch. They want to meet up with Hunk and Romelle at some fancy new restaurant in the middle of the city. Are you, uh, up for that?” 

 

For a split second Shiro’s ready to defend his honor to the death, but the serious crease of his forehead and the soft fall of his lips stops him. Keith wasn’t teasing, he was asking if Shiro could handle another full day of human interaction. Out of the two of them, Keith had always been more introverted, and the way he keeps glancing between Shiro and the door tells him if Shiro said no he’d wholly be ready to spend the day hiding from their friends. 

 

He also knows that Keith wants to spend time with them, wants  _ Shiro _ to spend time with them. It’s been so long since they’ve all been together, three days of hanging out hardly makes up for it. Keith wants Shiro to say that he’s going, so that Keith has to go too. He wants Shiro to make the decision for him, so that he won’t back out to stay at home in silence like they both want to.

 

Knowing all that, it’s no decision at all. 

 

“Yeah, that sounds fun,” Shiro says, pushing himself off the bed. He changes shirts and puts on jeans, tries to ignore the way Keith stares as he does. 

 

Shiro hadn’t been very good at respecting the other’s privacy their first few weeks together, often he’d openly stare at the other getting out of the shower or changing in his room just to remind himself that he was there. Seeing Keith do things he never saw him do before, things he couldn’t imagine, helped ground him in this new reality. He tries to offer the same amount of polite ignorance as Keith had given him, but the gazes feel different now. 

 

They feel hot. 

 

“Let’s go boys!” Pidge calls from the other room. Keith offers Shiro a blinding grin and Shiro’s lips mirror it as they head out. 

 

They take a train into the city, Keith and Lance get into two separate arguments, one Pidge started by mentioning Lance’s new life as a farmer which in turn becomes an argument between Lance and Keith over fashion. It’s mostly one-sided because Keith doesn’t care much about how he looks, but defends himself on principle. Shiro doesn’t mention the fact that he likes Keith’s loose shirts and jeans, or the skin-tight yoga wear he dons some days because even though he won’t admit it he misses his blade uniform. He does point out that although Lance’s attempts to bring back suspenders and overalls as fashion statements are admirable, he’s not a fan. 

 

The idea of Keith in overalls and a white t-shirt with his hair pulled back makes his stomach flip and his cheeks flush, but he knows that’s less to do with that farmboy-chique and more to do with his best friend being unfairly gorgeous. 

 

Shiro’s not sure what the second argument is about, it’s vague and awkward and Pidge starts talking to Shiro about her time with the Olkarians and their future plans for what essentially are mini-teludavs to help intergalactic travel. As it stands the only wormholes they have connect Earth, New Atlea, and Daibazaal to each other. Shiro tries to stay attentive, he does think it’s important and he is proud of Pidge, but the edge to Keith’s voice as he hisses something at Lance and the way Lance doesn’t balk in his normal over-dramatic way has Shiro on edge. 

 

He throws Keith a concerned look, wondering what’s going on but Keith gives him a smile in return and whatever they were talking about is dropped as Keith turns his attention to Pidge, asking her something about using that technology for relief missions. Shiro tries his best to focus, but his brain feels a little bit like it’s been stuffed with cotton and the force of Lance’s smile doesn’t disappear for the rest of the ride. 

 

“There you guys are!” Romelle calls, waving them down as they step out onto the street. Hunk and Romelle are standing to the side of the station. Hunk pulls them all into big hugs and Lance’s lengthy arms wrap around him like vines to a tree. “We’ve been waiting for ages.” 

 

“You should’ve told us earlier then,” Keith says, flipping her pigtail. Romelle pouts, grabbing her hair and patting it back down. “So where’s this place anyways? What’s it called again? ‘An Atelerian’s Delight?’” 

 

“It’s not even run by real Atelerians but I’ve heard the gborshkul is to die for. It’s just two blocks down my friends,” Hunk laughs. Shiro shares a look with Keith, both clearly confused by what on earth a gborshkul is and why it was to die for. Pidge groans at the mention of the long trek ahead before clicking her shoes together. Four small wheels pop out and Lance throws a hand out to so fast Shiro feels his own shoulder ache. 

 

“What the heck are those!?” he yells, gesturing at her now mobile shoes. 

 

“Relics from a past long forgotten,” Pidge says, pushing up her glasses. “With some modern improvements obviously.” 

 

“Please tell me you don’t use those all the time,” Shiro murmurs, wondering whether or not it was appropriate to reprimand her for her laziness.

 

“I want a pair!” Lance complains and Keith snorts at his side. 

 

“And when are you going to use them? When you’re out sowing the field? When you’re milking Kaltenecker Jr.?” 

 

Lance’s mid-retort when they happen upon the restaurant Hunk’s been raving about. “Finally!” he groans, and as if to further his own point Lance’s stomach rumbles loud enough for everyone to hear. Shiro hides a laugh behind his hand, and glances at Keith who smiles as he enters the restaurant, Hunk holding open for them. 

 

Shiro steps inside, the cool blue hues and modern furniture feel like something out of a magazine. There are fairy lights in vases at each table, a couple of people milling about. A screen hangs by the bar where some patrons drink and talk about some alien sport that Shiro’s never seen before. 

 

“Hey, is that?” 

 

Shiro turns at the sound of Lance’s voice, noticing his friends already walking towards one end of the room. Two women were seated there and in between them was a body face down against the table. Hunk is the first to walk over, arms outstretched and pulling the one who hopped out of their chair in a hug. 

 

“Nadia! Ina!” Hunk cried out, squeezing Rizavi. “Haven't see you guys in forever!” 

 

“Hunk? Holy shit–its the full set!” she cries out, fixing her glasses and staring at the others. “Even farmer-guy!” 

 

“I know you know my name!” Lance barks out, crossing his arms, eyeing the others. 

 

“It's so good to see you guys!” Hunk continues. “What are the chances?”

 

Shiro walks a little closer, peering around his friends who’ve crowded the table and notices the slumped body is one James Griffin. “Uh, you okay buddy?” Lance asks, poking Griffin. The man groaned in response, mumbling something into his arms. 

 

“He was dumped by the girl he was going to propose to,” Rizavi answers, cheerful despite the news she just dropped on them. 

 

“That's rough,” Keith says. The way Griffin looks up at his voice has Shiro on edge. He can’t place why, doesn’t want to. “Day drinking already? Guess it was a pretty bad break.”

 

“It's not like I proposed and she said no,” he hisses. Shiro notices the empty champagne flutes and three fresh ones holding what is no doubt mimosas if the orange slices and general color meant anything. 

 

“She's dating someone else,” Leifsdottir answers, and Griffin slams his head back against the table.

 

“She was cheating?” Lance asks.

 

“No,” he groans. “She wasn’t.”

 

“They hit some time distortion on the way back and lost two and a half Earth years,” Keith informs them, everyone turning to him. Shiro feels a weird sense of discomfort, like it was something he should have known. The way the former cadet turns his head, staring at him in awe, makes it worse. “Axca told me.”

 

“Of course she did,” he scoffs. "What Veronica knows Axca knows."

 

"And what Axca knows I know," Keith says, clear amusement in his voice.

 

“Why would Axca know what Veronica knows?” Lance asks, looking at everyone. Shiro swears the whole room rolls his eyes at him in unison. “Hey! What’s with the looks!”

 

“When did you get back?” Pidge asks, ignoring Lance’s outburst. Shiro’s not sure if he saw her glance at him with concern or if it was just Shiro’s paranoia looking into things. He hadn’t made a step towards the group since they started talking and the stares he was getting from the waitstaff were unnerving. 

 

“One week, two days, seven hours, thirty-six–ouch,” Leifsdottir complains, glaring at Rizavi who puts her hands-up in surrender. Shiro missed what she did, but he could imagine her kicking the other under the table.

 

“About a week ago,” Rizavi says, continuing the conversation. “He's been crying ever since.” 

 

“I haven't been crying,” the accused grumbles. Griffin continues his staring, watching Keith with a single-mindedness. “You interested in being a rebound?” Rizavi and Leifsdottir scoff like they’d been expecting such a crass question from their friend.

 

Keith snorts. “No thanks.” 

 

“Dude! Keith's taken,” Lance yells, slapping the back of his head. Keith’s shoulders hike up an inch and Shiro feels his own shoulders tense.

 

“Lance,” Keith warns, glaring at the other and taking a step away from the group. 

 

“Oh shit, sorry. Right. Two and a half years,” he groans, again. He doesn’t sound that disappointed, nothing to indicate he meant anything more or had any clandestine feelings, but Shiro feels anxious and the stares he was receiving by the hostess at the front of the restaurant makes his skin crawl. Shiro finally steps a little closer with Romelle, both feeling awkward as neither of them had many dealings with the former MFE pilots. 

 

“Captain Shirogane!” Griffin gets up to salute as Shiro laughs awkwardly. His anxiety climbs with each second that passes, and his new found status as the center of attention does nothing for his frayed nerves.

 

“It's just Shiro now,” he says calmly, giving what he hopes is a sincere smile. 

 

“He's retired,” Lance says, sliding over putting an elbow on Shiro's shoulder. It’s a comforting gesture, but it makes Shiro’s heart jump. 

 

“Congratulations,” Griffin says, after floundering for a moment. “And sorry for your loss?”

 

“His loss?” Keith muses aloud, shifting on his feet. Rizavi slaps her forehead. 

 

“I don't know–what do you say when someone gets divorced?” he stumbles, looking uncomfortable and his hands twitching at his side. Keith steps closer to Shiro and Griffin's face opens up. “ _ Oh _ , I guess it's congrats? To the two of you?”

 

“Excuse me?” Shiro croaks, stress finally hitting him in a way that even Romelle’s eyes catch. He gets five concerned looks for the crack in his voice. 

 

“What? Is that not–I just assumed–you know what. I'm just going to uh,” he stutters, pointing towards the bathroom. He hurries off away from the group, two of the mimosas on the table leaving with him. 

 

“Your divorce proceedings went by unusually quick which is indicative of a sudden loss of child, domestic abuse, or infidelity,” Leifsdottir says, and every goes still. The soft ambiance and murmurs of the world around them go quiet in Shiro’s ears. 

 

“Ina!” Rizavi scolds, slapping her arm. “Sorry, sir. We ran into, uh, your ex a little while ago and he told us about your separation.”

 

Shiro feels ill. He doesn’t have a chance to say anything, not that he could. His throat had seized up and his heart stopped beating. One firm hand grabs his flesh arm and pulls him out of the restaurant. He knows he’s hyperventilating, can feel the burn of his chest and lungs and the way his face starts to tingle. If he had the ability to calm down he'd be angry with how ridiculous he must have looked but all he can think about is what Leifsdottir said. The words repeat over and over in his head  _ divorce, abuse, cheating, ex, divorce, abuse, cheating, divorce, abuse, Curtis. _

 

_ Keith.  _

 

“Keith,” he gasps. The world is a dark tunnel and Keith’s steady hand on him is all that’s keeping him sane. He tries to breathe slowly, but his body won’t listen and there’s this noise that’s buzzing in his ears. It sounds tired and familiar and sad and loving all at once. 

 

“I’m here Shiro, I’m here. Just breathe,” the voice says, no louder than a whisper in comparison to the roaring in his ears. 

 

“What if he–what does he–I can’t,” Shiro sobs, hands grasping at Keith’s arms. “Keith–I can’t.” 

 

“Shiro, you need to breathe,” Keith begs him. Shiro feels himself being pressed flat against a brick wall. The icy stone digs into his skin and forces his breath out of him. Like an electric shock restarting his heart, the cold restarts his lungs. He forces each breath, in and out, in and out. 

 

“Listen to me,” Keith continues, the hands on him move to his cheek and chest. Keith’s gentle, too gentle, keeping him grounded and cradled, both firm and loving. It’s wrong, so wrong it makes Shiro want to cry. He doesn’t deserve it. “You’re okay, everything is okay.” 

 

“Keith–what I did to Curtis,” he cries. It’s unforgivable, and here he is making Keith deal with more than he ever should have to deal with. 

 

“Shiro, I know Curtis doesn’t blame you for what happened,” Keith tells him, soft in both his touches and words. Shiro tries to shake his head, feeling the energy seeping out through his legs, his bones ache they’re so exhausted. 

 

“Keith–he used to talk about it. How he’d thought there was someone else. He was talking about you–I knew he was, I just never said anything! And now you’re here, with me–how that must  _ look _ ,” he whimpers, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. He feels Keith still under his iron grip, marvels at how he hasn't so much as flinched under Shiro's bruising hold. 

 

“He knows you'd never cheat on him,” Keith insists. “You know he knows that.”

 

“But you’re here,” Shiro argues, opening up his eyes and immediately wishing he hadn’t. Even through the blur of tears he could see the pain he’d caused, the pain he was causing even now. 

 

“Do you want me to go?” Keith asks him, and his stomach lurches. 

 

“No!” That isn’t what Shiro wants at all, he tries to tell him as much but his breathing comes back in short spurts and Keith is corralling him against the wall promising him he won't leave. 

 

They cling to each other like it’s more than just a panic attack and the fear of what others think. It’s like they’re back there, Keith desperately trying to keep Shiro from disappearing from existence. Trying to tether his body to something corporeal, give him a reason to fight the open jaw of death. Pulling him back from the darkness that wants so badly to take him away. 

 

“Shiro, if you’re that bothered by this why don’t you talk to him,” Keith says after Shiro’s breathing comes back down. Shiro buries his head into the crook of Keith’s neck. “I’m serious. If you need to talk to him, you should. And you don’t need to feel so guilty about us. We aren’t really,” he mumbles and Shiro stiffens in his hold. 

 

“We aren’t?” Shiro whispers, a new fear taking root in his heart. That he might have been imagining things, that Keith never thought of him that way. That they were nothing more than best friends and Shiro was pushing his feelings onto the other. 

 

“We haven’t done anything, yet,” Keith amends, his hold on him going loose, like he’s waiting for Shiro to pull away. Shiro’s heart is on a rollercoaster that drops and climbs and he’s feeling dizzy, ill, but he lets out a relieved sigh at Keith’s words. 

 

“Yet?” he asks, lifting his head back just enough to see the shock in Keith’s eyes. Like he hadn’t realized what he had said. There’s the smallest dusting of color on his cheeks. His lips quirk up in that crooked smile that always seems to grace his face and he lifts one shoulder in a feeble shrug. 

 

“You have to know,” Keith accuses him, but it’s said so soft Shiro thinks it’s more a question. He does know, he knows and that’s the only thing that keeps him from running. 

 

“I know,” he answers, “but you’ve never tried anything.” 

 

“Maybe I’ve been waiting,” Keith says, eyes glistening with the oncoming of his own tears. 

 

Shiro wonders for how long, wonders if Keith would hate him if he kissed him right then. His face must betray the idea, because Keith laughs, a beautiful bright sound as he wipes away Shiro's tears. When he's done he presses his palm against Shiro’s lips, kisses the back of his own hand. 

 

Shiro knows it's for his sake. He knows it's because his heart is in a tumultuous frenzy over right and wrong, and he's probably snot-nosed and red-eyed which is exactly not how he wants their first kiss to go. That a rushed kiss after a panic attack about his ex is about the worst possible scenario Shiro could think of and everything with Keith should be no less than romantic, a perfect fairytale, because that's what he  _ deserves _ . He knows Keith thinks the same, knows it in how Keith drops his hand and rests their foreheads together. Keith wasn't going to rush this,  _ them _ . 

 

“Let’s wait a little longer, Takashi.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been awhile, I haven't given up though! Life's been crazy and I'm battling some major burnout, I hope that this leaves you guys on a pretty good note until next time to all of you who are still reading. If anyone is wondering I really did just put James Taylor as a canon musician in this story please forgive me I just love his music and I adore the idea of Keith and his dad playing soft not-quite-country acoustic love songs.

Despite his complete meltdown and the obvious ditching of friends, no one says anything to Shiro or Keith later that day when they return, nor any day after. 

 

Coran has already set out, unable to take any more time off what with New Altea’s government still young and unsure. Hunk and Romelle are on a world tour of Hunk’s new cookbook and make promises to return before leaving Earth. Lance spends his time back and forth between family and friends, and Pidge shows up without warning and leaves without care. It's one of those days where their small apartment seems full that Shiro marvels how much has changed in only a few weeks.

 

Lance takes station in the kitchen with Keith and Krolia, the wolf wrapped around Keith’s legs and taking up half the floor. Krolia had returned from a debriefing about the Daibazaal elections as the Earth decides on who to send back with her for the proceedings. It was interesting, Shiro found it fascinating, but at the same time the way they talked made him feel out of place. 

 

He had left that world so easily, he wasn’t sure if he had a right to return to it. 

 

Pidge took post with him on the couch, the television was playing some mindless news, volume turned down low. She was leafing through a local newspaper, glancing at Shiro every few minutes. He pretended not to notice, he wasn’t sure if she wanted him to. He couldn’t tell whether it was something he should address or not, but knowing her she was gathering information and looking for the most opportune time to unleash something he wasn’t going to be comfortable with. 

 

“So, you two are dating now right?” 

 

And there it is, he sighs. “I don’t know,” he tells her, because really, he doesn’t. “I think we’ve made a promise to start dating?” 

 

“Sounds like you two,” Pidge tuts, drawing his confusion. He waits for her explanation and she shrugs one shoulder, flipping to a new page of the newspaper. “It’s always ‘someday’ with you both.” 

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, and his voice might be a tad tight. A little bit on the defensive. She noticed, tilting her head to him with complete and blatant disinterest in her eyes. 

 

“You’re afraid of commitment,” she sighs. “Both of you are, despite one of you jumping into a marriage after only a year of dating.” 

 

“Pidge,” Shiro gasps, it’s a low blow, and she frowns but there’s no sign of an apology coming from her. She was never one to pull-punches. Still, he can’t exactly deny it and that makes acid churn in his stomach. “It’s–it’s different. With him, I mean.” 

 

“We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t,” she says. “We really were happy for you and Curtis, Shiro. But we were also a little confused.” 

 

A silence settles over the whole house. Shiro’s mind helpfully supplies ‘Galra hearing’ and feels a little mortified. When he turns his head back to the kitchen Keith, Lance, Krolia and the wolf are gone, likely Keith’s way of giving them privacy. Things were still fresh between them, and things still unsaid, and the looming figure of Curtis and words like love and marriage sit between them. 

 

“You know, he probably has his own hangups,” Pidge says, finally folding up the paper and discarding it on the coffee table. 

 

“What?” Shiro asks, turning his attention back to her. 

 

“About sex, dating, relationships,” Pidge says. “Look–I'm just saying there's no need to act like you're the only one with problems. If you asked him, I'm sure you'd be surprised to find he's a normal human too. Or half-human, whatever.”

 

“What are you talking about?” He feels like the whole conversation has started to derail. Pidge looks uncomfortable for a moment before pulling her legs up onto the couch. She’s taller than she used to be, but she still folds neatly into a small ball as she rests her chin on her knees. 

 

“I did a lot of research when you all disappeared. Research about everyone you ever interacted with at the Garrison. Some obtained in less than legal ways,” she tells him, her eyes settling on the screen with some reporter babbling away. “This whole thing between you two–whatever happened or didn’t happen, you don’t need to put the blame on yourself. We all know you feel guilty about Curtis, and that’s fine. You loved him.” 

 

She says it so easily,  _ loved _ , as though it was something in the past already. That three years of marriage really meant nothing anymore. 

 

“Just, remember you're not the only one with an unsavory past. You’re not the only one who fears the future,” she says, her deep brown eyes staring back into his. “I don’t know why it ended up this way, but it did. And we’re here for you, Shiro. You’re family. Keith’s not the only one who loves you.” 

 

Shame doesn’t begin to cover what it is he feels as he looks at her. Katie Holt, all grown up. His family that he left behind for reasons unknown to him now that he can see how much he was missing so clearly. Nothing seemed worth what he missed. 

 

She scoots to him, curls into his side and he hugs her, tucks her into his arms and bites down his tears. She wipes at her own, removing her glasses. He had drifted a lot further than he had even realized. 

 

“Matt’s the only one you’ve ever really talked to after the wedding,” she whispers. “Don’t you think that says something?” 

 

"I'm sorry," Shiro says, and it seems like such a disingenuous response. There’s not a single thing he could say to convey the weight on his chest. The guilt and shame he feels for leaving his family behind in his desperate attempts to find happiness and a new purpose when he had been so sure he wouldn’t have lived to see thirty. 

 

Pidge chuckles beside him, a wet, broken thing. The corners of her lips are quirked up and her nose and eyes are rubbed red. 

 

"What?" Shiro asks, and she shrugs in his side, leaning further into him, grabbing a hand with hers. She intertwines their fingers, staring at them. 

 

"It's just," Pidge starts, giving his hand a squeeze, "you're both so similar." 

 

Shiro doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know what she means by saying that, and though a small part of him wants to ask her who she’s talking about, they both know. Pidge turns to him, observing him with big brown eyes. Whatever she finds there makes her release an exasperated sigh, looking back to the kitchen where their friends had been. 

 

"He thinks it's his fault, y'know. That Allura is gone, that you disappeared. That we all separated when we needed each other most. I think he even blames himself for what happened between you and Curtis."

 

Shiro swallows the growing lump in his throat. "Why would he do that?" 

 

"Skewed sense of responsibility? Perfectionism gone wrong? Empathy turned martyrdom?” she guesses. “I don't know, you tell me, since you're both cut from the same cloth." 

 

"Me? I," Shiro says, wincing at the words that were so tempting to say. It was so much easier to just say and pretend that everything was fine and he could handle it, but if he learned anything in the past few years. He couldn’t. And his failure to handle things created rift after rift between him and his loved ones. Taking a deep breath, he reminds himself he’s home. He’s with family. "I guess I did take on a lot, huh?" 

 

"More than you ever needed to," Pidge agrees. "More than was fair, to yourself and others." 

 

Staring off at the empty kitchen, a weight settles on him. "I should talk to him." 

 

"Ya think?" Pidge snorts, leaning further into Shiro’s side. "I appreciate all he's done, as a leader and as a friend. But if he's helping all of us with our traumas and nightmares, who's helping him with his?"  

 

Shiro didn’t know the answer, and that was enough to strengthen his resolve. Keith was considerate, more considerate than his brash and blunt nature would lead anyone to believe. It was that consideration that would drive him out of his own home, Shiro realizes, a sickening twist of his heart at the thought. “Maybe I’m why he left,” Shiro whispers, shocked at his own stupidity. Pidge didn’t say anything about the disconnect in their conversation, only pulls out her tablet and shoots a message out into space.

 

“I’m going to headout,” she says, standing up. “Dad and mom want to know if you’d join us for dinner on Friday, I told them you’re probably busy but they want me to ask.” 

 

“I’m not,” Shiro answers. “Keith goes out on Fridays. I’d love to have dinner with you guys.” 

 

She hummed something, fingers rapidly flicking away at the clear screen. “Alright, don’t forget to come hungry because mom  _ will _ try to stuff you until you can’t move. You might even need a DD or risk dying on the road from food coma.” 

 

Chuckling at the thought, Shiro sighs as he watches her pick up her backpack and sling it over her shoulder. “Katie,” Shiro says, and she looks at him in surprise. “I am sorry.” 

 

“I know,” she says, a fond angle to her lips, a roll of the eyes as she waves a hand at him. “See you Friday."

 

"Friday," Shiro agrees, hearing the front door open.

 

"Hey Keith, I’ll catch you later,” Pidge greets, a blue blur bounding into the living room. Shiro catches sight of Keith walking in, a concerned frown on his lips before he gets tackled to the couch. Pidge gives them all one last goodbye before letting herself out.

 

“Shiro? Is everything okay?”

 

“Yup,” Shiro laughs, getting a mouth full of fur. “It’s just been awhile since I really got to sit down and talk with Pidge. Where’s Krolia and Lance?” 

 

Keith settles on the couch next to him, picking up the wolf until he’s laid out half on Shiro’s lap and half on his. His tail wags happily as Shiro starts to scratch behind his ear. “Mom got pulled away for a meeting. Won’t be back for awhile. Lance and I got into a bit of a disagreement so he’s going out to dinner with Veronica.” 

 

“Disagreement?” Shiro asks, raising one eyebrow. Keith digs his fingers into the fluff under his hands and shrugs. 

 

“What were you and Pidge talking about?” It’s not a subtle redirection, and Shiro’s heart leaps up into his throat at the sudden opportunity. 

 

“Are we dating?” he blurts out before he can second guess himself. Keith’s eyes are as wide as Shiro’s. 

 

“Yeah?” Keith says, and it’s more of a question. Shiro’s heart starts to sink and the world gets fuzzy before a hand grabs onto his, warm and firm in it’s squeeze. “Yes. We’re dating.” 

 

“Okay,” Shiro breathes, a rush of air leaving him at the thought. No more blurred lines, no more questions and half-truths. They were dating, and it was out in the universe, plain and simple. 

 

“Is that okay?” Keith asks, turning to Shiro and grabbing his hand. “We don’t have to define this like that. It can be whatever you need it to be, Shiro.” 

 

That doesn’t sit right with him. Like it’s all about his own comfort. It’s how he felt when he was having his breakdown. Like Keith was willing to put up with anything for him. “It feels wrong,” he admits, and the sudden heartbreak in Keith’s eyes leaves Shiro reeling.

 

“Oh,” Keith whispers, drawing his hand back.

 

“No! That's not,” Shiro groans in frustration, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “ _ This _ feels right. So right I can't even  _ explain _ it, but I feel like a terrible person. It hasn't even been a year and I–and you’re just okay with it. I just keep taking advantage of everyone’s feelings for me. I keep thinking about what you must feel seeing me break down and having to put me back together–I keep thinking about how Curtis must have felt, how he  _ will _ feel once he knows about us.”

 

“Shiro,” Keith says, voice firm and eyes full of unspeakable emotions. “If this makes you feel uncomfortable then we should stop. Like I said–we don’t have to define this. We never have to define this, I’m fine just being by your side.”

 

“I know you are but I don't want that!" Shiro argues, voice louder than needed. "I love you. I'm _in_ _love_ with you. I can't change that. And I don't want to change that. I just feel guilty because–”

 

“You love me?” 

 

Shiro stops in his tracks, his flickering and wild gaze finally settling on Keith’s eyes. He looks surprised, and he shouldn’t be. It should feel to him as natural as it feels to Shiro. Like inevitability.

 

“ _ Yes, _ ” Shiro promises. And Keith pulls their foreheads together, spidery fingers wrapped around his neck. Their breath lingers between them, a thousand questions rush through Shiro’s mind and he can see the same questions reflected back to him. “I love you.” 

 

“You love me,” he repeats, throat raspy with wonder. 

 

“I love you.” 

 

“I love you too,” Keith tells him, like he needs to. Shiro laughs and the promise to wait seems silly, but Keith seems to honor it. Reaches up between them and just as he had not that long ago. This time when Keith kisses the back of his own hand Shiro presses his lips the other side. Promises. 

 

When they pull back Keith has a smile that could blind the sun. 

 

Keith stands up then, the wolf rolling off the couch before popping out of existence and back again on the other side, curled up in a ball with his head in Shiro’s lap. He walks to the hallway closet and rummages around, pulls out a beat up acoustic guitar. Shiro can only stare at him in wonder as Keith takes a seat next to him. Shiro had heard a few twangs and soft thrums in the middle of the night, had seen curls of wire in the garbage. He hadn’t said a word, figured Keith would tell him when he was ready. 

 

“I’ve been practicing,” Keith says quietly, long fingers twisting the knobs and striking the strings in turn. “I wanted to surprise mom by learning the songs my dad used to play. She’ll be leaving for the elections soon. She hasn't said anything but she’s already getting pulled into meetings every day.” 

 

A slobbery tongue licks at Shiro’s hand, pulling him from his shock as he pets blue fur, watching Keith let out a soft sigh before playing a few chords, loosening up. Shiro could hear the scale progressions, dredging up old memories of mandatory piano lessons a long time ago. “You sound good,” Shiro says, and he means it. It’s smooth in the way a natural is. Keith gives him a bemused grin, one that speaks to his skepticism. 

 

“I only know a couple songs,” Keith says, shifting on the couch until he was comfortable, his hair falling into his face. Without prompt Shiro tucked it behind his ear and was rewarded a soft kiss to his palm. “Thanks.” 

 

“No problem,” Shiro wheezes, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. A single name plays over and over in his head.  _ Keith _ . And they’re dating. They’re in love. Biting down on his lip as Keith’s eyes dropped to the strings. He plays out a soft sound, timid, but beautiful. Shiro smiles as Keith hums a song that only he hears. “How does it go?”

 

“How does what go?” Keith asks, looking up at him, missing a note before turning back to the guitar. 

 

“The lyrics,” Shiro says with a laugh. “The song, how does it go?” 

 

“I’m not singing,” Keith says. “You can look up the lyrics.” 

 

“That’s no fun,” he complains, scooting closer until their thighs touch, crowding Keith’s space. “C’mon. You saw how bad of a singer I am the other day.” 

 

“Everyone was bad, it was karaoke.” 

 

“Which you never tried!” Keith smirks at Shiro’s accusation. The memory of Keith’s redirection and unfair use of puppy-dog eyes rings in his chest. “I won’t make you, but I’d like to hear it,” Shiro settles on, giving himself a congratulations as Keith’s smug grin turns into a pout. He had won this fight. 

 

“Fine,” he groans. “But don’t complain when it sounds terrible.” 

 

“No promises,” Shiro teases, sitting up straighter as Keith wiggles in his spot, a soft scowl on his forehead as he restarts the melody. As soon as Keith’s mouth opened he fumbles the strings and curses, starting over. Shiro spies a soft bead of sweat forming on his forehead. 

 

“Keith,” Shiro says, flinching at the ugly sound that comes from the guitar as he jumps. “It’s okay if you don’t want to, really.” 

 

“It’s just a little weird,” Keith says, ignoring him. “I’ll get it.” 

 

“Okay.” 

 

And he starts again, a hesitance that was there gone. “When you’re down and troubled,” Keith starts, the rasp of his voice catching in his nervousness. “And you need a helping hand, and nothing is going right,” he says, fumbling a note, taking a deep breathe. 

 

Shiro was stunned, watching violet eyes stare into his. “Close your eyes and think of me, and soon I will be there,” Keith sings, “to brighten up even your darkest nights.” 

 

“You just call out my name,” he sings to him, Shiro’s heart stops in his chest. “And you know wherever I am, I'll come running,” Keith’s voice trembles, eyes falling to his guitar. “To see you again.”

 

“Keith,” Shiro chokes, and Keith’s fingers fumble again, catching as his cheeks grow hot and red. 

 

“There is no need to be shy, kit, your voice is much nicer than your father’s.” 

 

Shiro’s head snaps up to the door where Krolia stands, an amused smile on her lips. Keith stops playing. “Mom,” Keith breathes out beside him. “When did you get back?” 

 

“Just now,” she says, sitting down on the couch, allowing herself to be smothered by a big fur ball as the wolf abdondes Shiro for Krolia's lap. “It was beautiful, Keith. You should have more confidence.”

 

“Your singing was really good,” Shiro agrees, feeling his own forehead and cheeks tingling with heat. Keith gives them both a grumpy glare and Shiro smiles.

 

“You should finish the song,” Krolia insists, waving at him. “Go on.” 

 

“No way! I’m not going to sing for you both while you sit here and make fun of me,” Keith fumes, though Shiro can see the glint of happiness in his eyes. Flushed from head to toe, the start of a smile in his scowl. 

 

“No one is making fun of you,” Krolia says, her frown and tone of voice far more serious than needed. As though she was insulted at the very thought. Shiro laughs at Keith’s exasperated sigh, fingers twitching on the strings. 

 

“I wanted to practice more before I showed you,” he admits. 

 

Shiro feels like he’s intruding on something, watching the fondness in their eyes as Krolia reaches out and brushes back his hair, jostling the wolf out of his position as she leans in to give Keith a kiss on his forehead. “You’re so like your father,” she tells him. Keith’s smile is without reservations then, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as his gaze drops to the guitar he holds close. 

 

“I haven’t learned the full version of ‘Your Smiling Face’ but that’s your favorite right?” Keith asks, looking at her and she leans back with a hum. 

 

“Among others. Your father was very fond of listening to that human man. He told me that when he was young his great-grandfather would play those songs for him while traveling.” 

 

“Who is this singer?” Shiro wonders out loud, not recognizing the song.

 

“Just some old guy from before World War III. Pop liked a lot of old music,” Keith says, strumming a different tune now. Shiro felt a little indignant, insulted that he felt he didn't need to know. To be fair, they both knew the only music he'd really been exposed to was for educational purposes. 

 

“We often listened to a great 'hits album',” Krolia adds. “Your father was under the impression that music is important during the gestation period of humans. I made sure you experienced a minimum of five earth hours of rhythmic sounds daily during your maturation." 

 

"That's definitely not a weird thing to say, like at all," Keith mutters, glancing at Shiro in amusement. Shiro shrugs, smiling as Keith starts another song. 

 

They stay like that for awhile, just petting an oversized puppy and listening to what Shiro is convinced must be the most beautiful voice he’s ever heard, even if he knows he’s biased. Krolia doesn’t hum along the way Shiro finds himself doing but she does smile and close her eyes in a way that has Keith grinning from ear to ear. A half hour later and Shiro’s pulling up tutorials of old songs that neither of them have ever heard but Krolia insists were her favorites during her time on Earth. 

 

When the TV gets turned on and the guitar gets set aside Keith pulls Shiro’s hand into his lap, lets his head fall on Shiro’s shoulder. Tells his mom something softly in a language Shiro was never going to figure out. Krolia stands up and places a kiss on both of their foreheads, much to Shiro’s surprise, and announces she’ll make dinner. Keith curls into his side further and that deep rumble emits from somewhere in his chest. 

 

There’s so much to talk about. So much unsettled, and despite Pidge’s insistence that his feelings for Curtis were already over he wasn’t so sure. Emotions are messy, but if he can give Keith a reason to look at him the way he does, he wants to. He wants to be worth that love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit me up on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/melonmachinery) if you want


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